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THE 


WESTERN  HOME, 


Sni>  ®l|«  |«ni5. 


BY 


Mrs.  L.  II.    SIG0UK:^EY. 


PHILADELPmA: 
PARRY   &    MCMILLAN, 

SUCCESSORS  TO  A.  HART,  late  CAREY  &  HART. 

1854. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  yeax  1854,  by 

PARRY  &    MCMILLAN, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Eastern 
DLstrict  of  Pennsylvania. 


STEREOTTPED   BY  L.  JOHXSON  ANB  CO. 
PUILADELPniA. 


PUBLISHER'S  NOTICE, 


It  may  be  proper  for  us  to  state  that  this  book  con- 
sists of  poems  never  before  published,  the  longest  of 
which  furnishes  the  title ;  also  of  some  selections  from 
the  illustrated  octavo  edition  of  Mrs.  Sigourney's  Poems, 
issued  from  our  house,  and  of  a  few  other  poems  that 
have  appeared,  from  time  to  time,  in  various  periodicals, 
but  have  never  before  been  comprised  in  any  volume. 

Philadelphia,  August^  1854. 


89355^ 


CONTENTS. 


Pagb 

The  Western  Home 17 

Memory 61 

Mohawk  Warrior 63 

Spring  Concert 68 

Spirit  of  Beauty..... 70 

Gethsemane 72 

Uncultured  Flowers 76 

Death  of  Cardinal  Mazarin 79 

Fallen  Forests 83 

Virginia  Dare 86 

Micah  and  the  Levite 91 

Nature's  True  Friends 95 

Queen  Phillippa 97 

The  Destroyer 100 

Talk  with  the  Brooks 104 

An  Old  Story.^. 106 

Landing  of  the  Pilgrims 108 

Prayer  on  Bunker  Hill 110 

1*  V 


VI  CONTENTS. 

Page 
Power's  Statue  of  the  Greek  Slave 112 

April 113 

Divine  Wisdom 116 

Last  Journey  of  Henry  Clay 119 

Friendship  with  Nature 122 

'^  Still  I  live" 125 

God  save  the  Plough 127 

The  Teacher 129 

Plant  at  Sea 135 

Morning  in  Rural  and  City  Life 136 

Gregory  Brandon 139 

The  Departed  Year 147 

Monody  to  Daniel  Wadsworth 149 

The  Mother  of  Wolfe 153 

The  Muse 157 

Listen 1 62 

The  Third  Day  at  Sea 165 

Oriska 168 

Eeturn  of  Napoleon 180 

Unspoken  Language 185 

No  Concealment 191 

Needles,  Pen,  and  Sword 194 

Fruitful  Autumn 199 

To-Morrow 202 

Eve 208 

Dell  of  the  Wreck 212 

Winter  and  Age 215 


CONTENTS.  VU 

Page 

Birds  of  Passage 217 

Aaron  on  Mount  Hor 221 

Lost  Day 226 

Storm  SaUs 228 

Scottish  Weaver 230 

Indian  Summer 251 

Hermit  of  the  Falls 253 

Erin's  Daughter 260 

The  Holy  Dead 262 

Dew-Drops 264 

The  Little  Footstep 266 

Scotland's  Famine 269 

Falls  of  the  Yantic .'....  272 

Stratford-upon-Avon 275 

Midnight  Thoughts  at  Sea 279 

Trial  of  the  Dead 281 

Emigrant  Mother 288 

Healing  at  Sunset 294 

Filial  Piety  of  David 296 

The  Ivy 300 

The  Rainbow 303 

The  Thriving  Family 305 

The  Victim  of  the  Deep 308 

Harold  and  Tosti 311 

Clock  at  Versailles 317 

Prince  of  Edom.... 320 

Work  of  the  Weary  Woman .c. 323 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

Page 

First  Missionary 326 

''Sorrow  as  on  the  Sea." 329 

Our  Country 333 

Removal  of  an  Ancient  Mansion 337 

Lost  Lily 342 

Twilight 350 

Unrifled  Cabinet 352 

Talk  with  Time 354 

Man's  Three  Guests 356 


u.  §ipumt^'^  luniis. 


THE   WESTERN   HOME. 

High  noon,  on  broad  Ohio's  tide, — 
And  while  its  flashing  waters  glide, 
'Mid  fringed  bank,  or  sunny  glade. 
Or  unshorn  forest's  towering  shade. 
As  erst  it  flowed  ere  bold  and  young 
To  birth  this  wondrous  centuiy  sprung. 
In  a  green  thicket  dense  and  rude 
Two  youths  the  woodman's  toil  pursued. 
— Their  stalwart  arms  might  rule  the  tide. 
Their  lips  with  vermil  tinge  were  dyed. 
Brown  was  the  cheek  that  braved  the  blast, 

And  oft,  T\dth  clarion  swell. 
Snatches  of  meriy  song  were  heard 
As  light  through  opening  vistas  peered, 
For  at  their  strokes,  dealt  thick  and  fast. 

The  forest  monarchs  fell. — 

2*  17 


18  THE   WESTERN   HOME. 

Reclining  now  on  greensward  fair, 
The  simple  noontide  meal  they  share, 
When  one  who  seemed  to  muse  awhile 
Looked  up,  and  said,  with  kindling  smile, 
"  Sweet  is  this  life,  in  greenwood  here. 

Yet  sweeter  'twere,  to-day. 
If  one  from  our  own  clime  was  near. 

Whose  name  I  will  not  say." 

*'  Speak  out !  speak  out !"  his  comrade  cried, 
With  flashing  red  his  forehead  dyed. 

"I  know  thou  fain  wouldst  claim 
Young  Mary  Ashton  for  thy  bride  : 
How  vain  to  seek  with  bootless  shame 
From  me  that  truth  to  hide. 
She  is  the  fairest  of  our  band, 
The  very  lily  of  the  land. 

And  think' st  thou  that  her  sire, 
Wlio  frowns  if  even  the  zephyr  meek 
Ruffles  the  ringlets  on  her  cheek, 

Would  yield  to  thy  desire, 
And  see  her  in  thy  footsteps  go, 
Mid  brambly  brake  and  Indian  foe  ? 

Walter  St.  Clair,  I  tell  thee  no." 

Then  to  his  task  he  sprang, 
Nor  marked  the  expression,  arch  and  sly, 


THE   WESTERN    HOME.  19 

That  lurked  in  Walter's  eagle  eye 

And  heard  without  a  pang 
Reverberating  cliffs  prolong 
The  chorus  of  his  echoed  song, 
^'Oh!  Love  is  sweet,  and  Love  is  strong." 

And  yet,  perchance,  that  manly  breast 

Shut  in  its  deepest  core 
Misgivings  more  than  words  confessed; 

For,  when  the  day  was  o'er. 
And  long  they  slept  on  pallet  low 
Such  sleep  as  toil  alone  may  know. 
Wild  dreams  unfurled  a  tragic  scene  :— 
There  stood  his  fair,  with  gentle  mien 
And  trembling  smile  and  tear-drop  sheen. 

As  when  they  parted  last. 
But  the  stern  father  rushed  between, 
And  all  their  tender  purpose  banned, 
And  forced  from  his,  her  yielding  hand. 

And  then,  mid  thunder-blast. 
On  a  black,  storm-tossed  flood  she  lay 
By  fiend-like  creatures  row'd  away. 
While  mocking  voices  from  the  shore, 
Shrieked  with  hoarse  laughter — ''Meet  no  more!" 
Then  stifled  moan  and  frantic  start 
Betrayed  a  torture-stricken  heart 


20  THE   WESTERN   HOME. 

Till  morn  arose  with  sandals  gray, 
And  warned  them  to  the  woods  away. 

The  breath  of  Spring,  that  Nature  hails, 
Stole  softly  o'er  New  England's  vales. 

The  lingering  snow-wreath  fled ; 
From  hough  and  grove  gay  carols  rang. 
And  living  emerald  freshly  sprang 

Beneath  the  elastic  tread. 
Spring  eve  amid  a  garden  bower, — 

And  though  its  interlacing  vine 
Ventured  not  yet  the  tender  flower 

In  flexile  wreaths  to  twine. 
Long  willow  wands  their  curtain  hung, 

And  through  the  leafy  screen 
That  o'er  the  simple  trellis  clung, 

A  youth  and  maid  were  seen. 

Of  two  I  spoke,  yet  three  were  there, 
Though  one  in  vehicle  of  air 

Eluded  mortal  eye, 
He,  whose  unfilial  arrow  keen 
Spared  not  to  pierce  the  Paphian  queen. 

That  urchin  sUght  and  sly. 
Around  was  cast  his  magic  spell. 
But  what  he  said  I  may  not  tell ! 


THE    WESTERN    IIUME.  21 

His  subtle  idiom  ill  may  brook 
The  cold  restraint  of  pen  or  book, 

And  'twere  a  losing  part 
Here  to  be  painting  blush  or  sigh, 
Or  whispered  vow,  or  moistened  eye, 
Which  but  the  pencil  of  the  sky 

Can  trace  upon  the  heart. 

— ^Dark  night,  and  'gainst  the  window-pane 
Dash  heavy  drops  of  sleeted  rain. 
For  changeful  are  J^ew  England's  skies. 
And  fickle  Spring  may  violets  throw, 
Or  choke  the  rills  with  diifted  snow. 

Just  as  her  mood  shall  rise. 
But  by  a  fair,  domestic  hearth 
The  large,  round  logs  made  crackling  mirth. 
And  musing,  as  their  leaping  flame 
In  every  shape  fantastic  came, 

A  man  sedate  and  sage 
Was  there,  the  master  and  the  sire : 
Time  had  not  quenched  his  dark  eyes'  fire 
Though  threads  of  silver,  here  and  there, 
Lurked  mid  his  wealth  of  chestnut  hair-^ 
The  blossomed  seed  of  thought  and  care 
More  than  of  ripening  age. 


THE   WESTERN   HOME. 

He  mused,  percliance,  as  Priam  bent 
When  his  last  frustrate  shaft  was  spent, 
"While  a  slight  form  in  girlhood's  grace 
Sate  on  his  knee,  her  favourite  place. 
One  white  arm  round  his  neck  was  prest, 
Her  head  lay  lamblike  on  his  breast, 
Yet  still  within  that  half-closed  eye 
Spake  woman's  deathless  constancy. 

"  Oh,  father  !  since  that  mother  died, 
Our  dearest  solace  and  our  pride, 
My  aim  hath  been  both  day  and  night 
Her  place  to  fill,  as  best  I  might ; 
Yet,  ah !  how  far  each  highest  care 
Still  fell  beneath  my  hope  and  prayer. 
These  bitter  tears  that  nightly  flow 
And  thine  oft-tried  forbearance  show. 
— But,  father,  think !  my  sister  dear. 

Scarce  younger  is  she  now, 
THan  I  when  in  that  wo  severe 

I  saw  thy  manhood  bow, 
And  clung  all  trembling  to  thy  side 
When  the  dark  grave's  brink  yawned  so  wide. 
— ^Put  faith  in  her,  she  ^^dll  not  fail. 
Brave  heart  may  dwell  in  casket  frail : 


THE   WESTERN   HOME.  23 

The  willow  branch,  that  breezes  sway, 
Is  firm  when  oaks  are  reft  away ; 
And  how  could  I  new  pleasures  share, 
If  none  were  left  for  thee  to  care?" 

"I^ot  for  the  sadness  that  must  fall, 

When  thou  art  gone,  on  hearth  and  hall, 

ISlot  at  the  loss  it  me  and  mine, 

O  sweetest  daughter !  I  repine, 

For  ill  befits  it  one  who  owes 

Mid  all  his  manhood's  joys  and  woes, 

To  wedded  love  such  countless  debt, 

Against  that  love  himself  to  set. 

N"or  yet  to  blame  thy  maiden  choice 

E'er  have  I  raised  the  upbraiding  voice; 
Mary,  if  part  we  must, 

Walter,  my  true  friend's  noble  son, 
So  well  from  early  boyhood  known, 

Is  worthy  of  thy  trust. 
But  I  have  feared,  in  western  wild. 
Lest  hardships  whelm  my  cherished  child. 
Or  danger  with  its  iron  hail 
Should  sweep  from  earth  my  lily  pale. 
Alas !  in  far  Ohio's  glade 
I  knew  the  skulking  savage  stray'd, 


24  THE  WESTERN   HOME. 

And  war-whoop  fierce  and  victim's  scream 
Too  often  break  m}^  startled  dream." 

"  G-od  is  my  strength!''  the  maiden  said; 
And  as  she  gently  raised  her  head, 

He  marked  that  steadfast  ray 
"Which  o'er  her  mother's  brow  did  flame 
"Wlien  sudden  Death's  dark  Angel  came 

To  snatch  the  soul  away, 
And  deemed  that  pure,  prevaihng  tone 
Some  echo  from  her  angel  tlii'one. 
^'^o  longer  I  resist  His  will ; 
Be  still,  my  selfish  heart,  be  still !" 

Their  stated  hour  of  prayer  had  gone, 
And  midnight's  step  stole  slowly  on. 
Yet  on  the  Book  Divine  he  laid 
His  reverent  hand,  and  humbly  read 
The  words  our  blessed  Saviour  said 

To  his  loved  follower,  John : — 
"Let  not  your  hearts  be  troubled,  ye 
Believe  in  God, — ^believe  in  Me." 

Then,  kneeling  side  by  side. 
And  hand  in  hand,  the  fiither's  prayer 
Liiplored  God's  pity  on  their  care. 


THE   WESTERN    HOME.  25 

Invoked  His  aid  new  toils  to  bear, 

His  grace,  whate'er  betide. 
Metbouglit,  that  on  that  hour  divine 

The  Comforter  came  down, 
He  who  from  earthly  griefs  can  twine 

Heaven's  amaranthine  crown : 
For  they,  whose  eyes  so  long  had  wept, 
Whose  hearts  such  anxious  vigil  kept. 
Slept  their  blest  sleep  who  know  no  guile, 
And  woke  with  faith's  sustaining  smile. 

The  earliest  rose  of  Summer's  care 
1^0 w  throws  fresh  fragrance  o'er  the  air, 
And  o'er  full  vase  and  wreathed  wall, 
"Where  meekly,  mid  a  festal  hall. 
Stands  one  who  by  her  lover's  side. 
Awaits  the  sacred  name  of  bride. 

And  gleaming  mid  her  tresses  hung, 
Twined  with  the  rose-bud  bright  and  sheen, 
A  single  lily  of  the  vale. 
In  tender  fragrance  pure  and  pale, 
By  florist's  skill  beyond  its  date 
Preserved  to  deck  her  marriage  fete, 
Whose  emblem  flower  it  long  had  been 

Amid  her  playmates  young. 


26  THE   WESTERN   HOME. 

There  was  the  priest,  of  reverend  mien, 
The  thronging  Mends,  the  sire  serene  -^ 
While  ranged  in  beauteous  show  were  seen 
Seven  gracefal  heads,  a  terraced  row, 
Just  as  the  hue  of  age  did  go — 

From  four  to  fair  eighteen. 
Seven  steps  of  life  that  temple  bore, 
But  at  its  threshold  never  more 

The  highest  shall  be  seen : 
Supply  that  chasm  as  best  ye  may, 
Ye,  who  so  long  by  night  and  day, 
Proud  of  the  elder  sister's  sway. 

Have  counted  her  your  queen. 

The  rite  is  o'er,  the  prayer  hath  blest, 
The  bride-ring  on  the  finger  prest. 
And  heartfelt  merriment  and  jest, 

"Which  the  old  bridals  knew. 
Ere  fashion's  foot  had  trod  them  out, 
Toss'd  their  light  garlands  all  about. 

Tinting  the  cheek  with  ruddier  hue  ; 
Then  while  the  rich  collation  prest 
Its  generous  warmth  on  eveiy  guest. 
The  youngest  boy,  who  crept  apart 
With  quivering  lip  and  heaving  heart, 


THE   WESTERN   HOME.  27 

Confronted,  in  a  chafing  mood, 
The  manly  bridegroom  where  he  stood. 
Luther  at  Augsburg  dealt,  perchance, 
Such  fearless  and  indignant  glance. 

"Wilt  take  my  sister  hence  away. 
Where  bears  and  Indians  tear  their  prey?" 
He  stamp' d  his  foot.     "N'ay,  Walter — nay; 
We  want  her  here.     We  cannot  play, 
I^or  read,  nor  sing,  nor  sleep,  nor  pray — 
We  can't  be  good,  if  she's  away." 
— Still,  as  he  spoke,  his  choler  rose,    " 
Till  mid  his  hair  the  crimson  glows. 
She  wrapp'd  her  white  arms  round  the  child. 
And  soothed  and  tamed  his  temper  wild ; 
Yet  might  you  hear  amid  the  bliss 
Of  her  prolonged,  protecting  kiss. 
The  sobbing  tones,  "  Go,  Walter,  go  ! 
You  shall  not  be  my  brother — no !" 

How  beautiful  is  woman's  love  ! 
That  from  the  play-place  of  its  birth. 
The  sister's  smile,  the  parent's  hearth, 
The  earliest  warmth  of  friendship  true, 
The  holy  church  where  first  it  knew 


28  THE   WESTERN   HOME. 

The  balm  of  Clirist's  baptismal  dew, 
To  stranger-bands,  to  stranger-bome, 
O'er  desert  clime,  o'er  ocean  foam, 

Goes  forth  in  perfect  trust,  to  prove 
The  untried  toil,  the  burdening  care. 
The  peril  and  the  pang  to  dare. 
Oh,  glorious  Love  !  whose  purpose  high. 
With  guardian  angel's  constancy,     . 
Till  severing  Death  stands  sternly  by. 
Hath  to  a  mortal's  keeping  given 
Its  all  of  earth,  its  all  of  heaven. 

Heigho !  the  western  hills  are  steep, 
The  bridgeless  rivers  broad  and  deep  ; 
ISTor  steam  was  there,  nor  iron  horse, 
With  triumph  shout  and  lightning  force 

O'er  cliff  and  stream  to  sweep. 
By  bridle-path,  by  blacken'd  tree, 
Their  way  they  win,  if  way  it  be. 

O'er  tangled  maze  and  broken  sod. 
In  fragile  ark  the  floods  they  dare — 
Her  heart  was  strong,  for  he  was  there. 
Fast  by  his  side,  she  felt  no  fear ; 
Her  more  than  friend,  or  brother  dear. 

Her  more  than  sire,  her  next  to  God, 


THE   WESTERN   HOxME.  29 

I've  said  tlie  road  was  long  and  sore, 
Yet  no  repentant  thought  was  there ; 

And  when  the  steeds,  all  travel-wore, 

Drew  up  beside  the  quiet  door 

Of  the  new  home  in  greenwood  fair. 

Expect  me  not  in  words  to  say 

What  joy  and  deep  content  had  sway 

In  their  fond  hearts  that  happy  day. 

Their  humble  roof  was  firmly  laid, 
Of  jointed  logs  the  building  made. 
Yet  more  of  space,  and  comfort  too. 
Were  there  than  met  the  careless  view ; 
For  well  these  walls  the  storm  could  quell. 
And  tyrant  cold  or  heat  repel. 
N"or  deem  the  ingenious  Yankee  mind, 
With  woman's  household  skill  combined, 

Fail'd  in  that  home  to  blend 
Somewhat  of  ornament  refined, 

A  cheering  grace  to  lend. 
Casement,  and  couch,  and  table,  show 
Curtain  or  cloth  like  drifted  snow. 
One  precious  picture  on  the  walls. 
The  brow  of  Mary's  sire  recalls, 
In  the  bright  vase  her  sister  gave. 
The  sweetest  wild-flowers  duly  wave. 


30  THE   WESTERN   HOME. 

"Wliilc  seeds  a  brotlier's  care  would  save 
Burst  tlie  rich  mould  and  deck  the  eaves 
With  clustering  buds  and  lustrous  leaves. 

And  well  had  Nature  done  her  part 

To  deck  this  temple  of  the  heart : 

In  towering  trunks  more  proud  and  bold 

Than  were  Dodona's  oaks  of  old, 

The  beach  and  sycamore  aspire ; 

And,  mid  their  boughs,  with  wings  of  fii-e 

The  red-bird  carols  clear  ; 
"While,  hid  in  interlacing  fold, 
The  parroquets,  in  green  and  gold, 

Their  crested  younghngs  rear. 
Through  gleaming  vistas,  darkly  green. 
The  dun  deer's  antler'd  brow  was  seen 
A  moment,  ere  with  graceful  bound 
He  lightly  clear' d  the  enchanted  ground. 
From  rock  to  rock,  in  slight  cascade, 
A  silver-footed  fountain  play'd. 
And  lavish  threw  its  crystal  store 
Like  diamonds  near  that  sylvan  door ; 
Then  dancing  on,  in  freedom  wild. 
While  brightening  turf  its  course  confess'd. 
To  fair  .Ohio's  matron  breast 

Leap'd  like  a  jo^^ous  child. 


THE   WESTERN   HOME.  31 

IIow  liappy  is  the  farmer's  toil ! 

To  deck  with  turf  the  unsightly  soil, 

To  clothe  the  glehe  with  grain, 
Even  while  he  sleeps,  the  busy  seed 
Doth  wake  to  consummate  his  deed. 
The  earth  to  bless  and  man  to  feed ; 

Nor  shall  his  hope  be  vain, 
"Who  walks  with  IS'ature  and  with  God 
In  holy  labor  o'er  the  sod. 
And  "Walter,  full  of  health  and  zeal, 
Went  forth  each  morn  such  joys  to  feel. 
ISTor  murmur' d  she — that  new-made  bride — 
Though  all  day  long  his  task  he  plied ; 

For  she,  with  harmonizing  will 
Her  pleasure  in  her  duties  found. 

And  strove,  with  still  advancing  skill. 
To  make  her  home's  secluded  bound 
An  Eden  refuge,  sweet  and  l>lest, 
"When,  weary,  he  return' d  for  rest. 


There,  too,  with  matron  grace  she  taught 
The  little  maiden  at  her  side, 

Who  in  each  fitting  labour  wrought, 
Faithful  and  satisfied, 


32  THE   WESTERN   HOME. 

For  industry  with  love  was  blent  ^ 

And  well  it  pleased  her  gentle  guide 
To  see  that  docile  heart  content. 
Rain  heats  the  blossoms  from  the  tree, 

Tears  wash  life's  opening  joys  away — 
So  let  the  smile  be  bright  and  clear, 
And  kind  the  tones  that  meet  the  ear 

In  childhood's  fleeting  day. 
It  comes  but  once ;  rob  not  the  year 

Of  its  sw^eet  spring-tide  gay. 

Seasons  roll'd  on  ;  but  w^hen  again 
Blithe  summer  led  her  jocund  train, 

A  new  delight  it  bore. 
What  was  it  ?     Flower  of  fi^agrance  fair  ? 
Bird  of  rich  song,  or  plumage  rare  ? 

Fruit  of  ambrosial  store  ? 
ISTo  !     Fruit  nor  flower  of  gorgeous  ray, 
ITor  bird  of  golden  wing  might  pay 

Her  risk  and  daring  brave. 
For  she  had  rush'd  on  death  to  save 
A  helpless  form,  a  stranger-prize, 
A  mystic  life  that  never  dies  : 
Hence  on  her  eye  a  lustre  fell. 

And  round  her  lip  a  smile  was  wove, 


THE   WESTERN    HOME.  33 

That,  eloquent  in  silence,  tell 

The  loss  of  self  in  holy  love. 
Now  brought  each  hour  its  fair  em23loy, 

"While  reigned  with  soft  control 
That  fulness  of  a  woman's  joy 
Wliich  ripeneth  best  the  soul. 
Which  fitteth  for  the  angel's  kiss, 
In  better,  purer  realms  than  this — 
A  mother's  lot  of  care  and  bliss. 

The  babe  hath  learned — (a  marvel  fraught 

With  unsurpassed  precocious  power ! 

For  so,  within  their  happy  bower,  * 
They,  like  all  other  parents,  thought) 

The  creeping  babe,  who  almost  stands, 
Hath  learned  his  father's  step  to  know. 
At  his  young  mother's  voice  to  crow. 

And  clap  his  dimpled  hands. 
But,  ah !  those  secret  foes  that  wait 
So  thick  around  life's  opening  gate, 

Have  mark'd  that  infant  fair. 
And  stolen  the  laughter  from  his  tongue. 
His  little,  rounded  Hmbs  unstrung, 
O'er  his  smooth  brow  strange  pallor  flung. 
And  woke  unslumbering  care. 


34  THE  WESTERN   HOME. 

The  father  sighed  each  morn  to  leave 

So  anxiously  his  door, 
Yet  bade  the  mother  not  to  grieve, 
But  with  her  prayer  the  hope  to  weave 

That  eve  would  health  restore. 

Once,  as  the  day  drew  near  its  close, 
Affection's  piercing  wail  arose — 
"  My  child !     O  God !  he  dies !" 
And  as  the  little  maiden's  eyes. 

Blinded  with  tears,  were  raised. 
Her  shriek  burst  forth  so  loud  and  shrill, 
So  wiM,  and  ominous  of  ill. 

The  mistress  turn'd  amazed. 
There,  in  the  door,  of  stature  tall. 
Bony  and  gaunt,  and  sad  withal, 
She  saw  a  red-brow' d  woman  stand. 

One  of  that  race 
Who,  by  our  people  scorned  and  banned, 
Were  hunted  fi'om  their  native  land. 

Like  outcasts  base. 

Hung  on  her  arm,  an  ample  store, 
A  scrip  replete  with  herbs  she  bore, 
And  drawing  near,  with  aspect  wild 


THE   WESTERN   HOME.  36 

Fastened  her  dark  eye  on  the  child, 
And  felt  his  rigid  hand, 

Then,  hasting  toward  the  fire,  she  shred 
In  water  pure  the  leafy  gem, 
And  groined  root,  and  veined  stem, 

In  which  the  health-stream  slumbered : 

She  bathed  the  spasmed  limbs  and  head, 

And  gently  through  the  shut  teeth  sped 

Reviving  drops,  and  gave  with  care. 

To  lungs  collapsed,  the  vital  air. 


So,  though  with  fear  and  hatred  wild. 

Still  cried  the  httle  maid  aloud, 
"Please,  do  not  let  her  touch  the  child !" 

Yet,  with  a  spirit  bowed. 
The  mother's  yearning  heart  was  still, 
Yielding  to  that  strange  woman's  skill ; 

For,  as  she  fan^ed  the  flame. 
And,  kneeling  down,  the  caldron  stirred, 
A  whispered  prayer  for  aid  she  heard. 

In  the  Redeemer's  name. 
And  then,  as  if  a  mighty  spell 
On  that  worn  watcher's  bosom  fell, 
She  meekly  strove,  without  a  moan, 
To  make  God's  holy  will  her  own. 


36  THE   WESTERN    HOME. 

So  at  her  side,  by  night  and  day, 

Their  charge  that  Indian  doctress  tended. 
Till  round  his  lip  those  smiles  did  play, 

Which  told  their  anxious  watch  was  ended ; 
And  then  she  rose,  her  way  to  take. 
But  fervently  the  father  spake : 
*'  !N'o,  stay  !     Ilowe'er  our  God  hath  made 
These  differing  brows  of  varj^ing  shade. 

His  love  our  hearts  hath  blent. 
And  He  hath  given  you  grace  to  bear. 
From  Death's  dread  gate  our  darling  fair 

Back,  to  our  soul's  content, 
So  let  us  make  your  life  our  care. 
And  be  our  pleasant  home  your  own." 

Then  answered,  in  a  trembling  tone, 
She,  who  to  that  stern  race  belonged, 
"Who,  when  astonished,  pleased,  or  wronged, 
Aim  not  by  outward  sign  to  show 
The  emotions  in  their  breasts  that  glow. 
"  A  lodge  I  have  by  streamlet  lone, 

Far  from  invading  foe ; 
For  my  few  wants  these  hands  provide, 
And  better  'tis  I  there  should  bide. 

In  my  poor  Lidian  ways. 
But  still  to  you,  so  free  from  pride. 


THE   WESTERN   HOME.  37 

This  heart  its  tribute  pays ; 
And  if  by  stern  disease  you're  tried, 
I'll  stand  a  sentry  at  your  side, 
Wliile  through  these  veins  the  vital  tide 

In  crimson  current  strays." 

So,  when  that  well-remembered  form 
Was  sometimes  seen,  at  gathering  storm 

Or  nightfell,  drawing  near, 
They  hailed  her  as  an  honoured  guest, 
The  shelter  of  their  roof-tree  prest, 

And  gave  her  welcome  cheer. 
And  once,  when  full  of  health  and  glee, 
The  bantling  sate  upon  her  knee. 

And  mid  her  dark  locks  played, 
She  with  their  earnest  wish  complied, 
Oft  made  before,  yet  oft  denied, 
The  story  of  her  earlier  state 
Or  nation's  history  to  relate. 

And  simply  thus  she  said  :— 

"My  roving  people,  well  you  know, 
Subsist  by  barbed  hook  and  bow; 
But  of  my  tribe  a  favoured  few 
The  arts  of  agriculture  knew — 


38  THE   WESTERN   HOME. 

Keclaimed  from  savage  life,  by  kind  control 

And  holiest  ministry, 
Pupils  of  one  who  loved  the  soul, 

"Whate'er  the  brow  might  be. 
Zeizberger,*  blessed  saint!  how  sweet 

His  tones  at  Sabbath-morn, 
"Would  the  dear  Sa^iour's  words  repeat 

From  whence  our  hope  was  born. 
In  humble  church,  where  so  we  joyed  to  meet, 

Or  by  our  hearth-stones  rude, 
Methought,  his  hffced  eye  of  prayer, 
His  mild,  serene,  angelic  air 
Prevailed  to  win  the  mercies  rare 
That  still  for  us  he  sued. 

With  patient  hand  and  tireless  thought. 
The  arts  of  industry  he  taught : 
Through  him  the  instructed  Indian  drew 

The  sweet  blood  from  the  maple  tree, 
And  smiled  the  laden  bough  to  see 

Where  ruddy  apples  grew. 

*  A  village  of  Christian  Indians  in  Ohio  was  destroyed,  in  1782,  by 
Col,  Williamson  and  his  soldiers.  It  was  of  the  Moravian  persuasion, 
and  the  grave  of  its  faithful  missionary,  Zeizberger,  is  still  seen  near 
Zanesville ;  its  inscription  stating  that  he  attained  the  venerable  age 
of  87  years. 


THE   WESTERN   HOME.  39 

The  household  wheel  in  music  turning  round, 
The  busy  loom  witli  jarriug  sound, 
The  flying  needle's  skill, 
Wrought  out  our  clothes,  while  cultured  field 
Garden  and  herd,  their  comforts  yield 

Obedient  to  our  will. 
The  rifle  that  to  anguish  stirr'd 
The  flying  deer  and  nestling  bird, 
Gave  place  to  sickle  and  to  spade, 
And  harvest-song  of  youth  and  maid : 
So  thus  we  dwelt,  a  thriving  village  fair. 
Like  children  well  content  to  heed  a  flither's  care. 


*'Eumours  of  war  were  in  the  land, 

And  the  pale  faces  frowned 
Whene'er  the  forest-sons  they  scanned 

Roam  o'er  their  ancient  ground ; 
Yet  still  Zeizberger's  flock  was  kept 
In  peace  where  gentle  w^aters  crept 
Mid  pastures  green,  from  tumult  free. 
The  corn  of  spring  was  in  its  leaf, 

The  flax-flower  waxing  blue, 
And  o'er  the  fresh  buck^vheat  the  bee 

A  merry  reaper  flew— 


40  THE   WESTERN    HOME. 

In  ripples  o'er  its  rocky  bod 
The  Tuscarawas  murmured, 

But  not  of  fear  or  grief, 
For,  like  a  child  that's  tired  of  play, 
In  unsuspicious  dreams  the  quiet  hamlet  lay. 

"  But  as  the  lightning  cleaves  the  sky 
When  summer-suns  are  warm  and  high, 

The  startled  midnight  blushed, 

Each  cottage  roof  was  red, 
From  sleep  their  inmates  rush'd, 

And  sank  among  the  dead ! 
White  warriors !  sure  ye  found  your  prey 
All  unprepared  for  mortal  fray. 
With  mutter' d  curse  and  flashing  sword. 
On  the  slain  mother's  breast  were  clinging  infants  gored, 
And  e'er  the  dawning  of  the  day. 

All,  all,  had  ceased  to  live ; 
Save  two  or  three  who  fled  away, — 

Christ  help  us  to  forgive ! 

"Vengeance,  the  Eternal  saith,  is  mine ; 
Yet  in  the  red  man's  heart, 
Vengeance  is  strong, 
And  liveth  long. 


THE    WESTERN    HOME.  41 

Where  Christ's  love  hath  no  part. 
And  ambush  with  its  secret  Hne 

Hath  bade  the  white  man  bleed, 
And  Crawford  *  was  condemned  to  make 
Atonement  at  the  torture  stake, 

For  this  unrighteous  deed. 


"My  poor  old  sire,  with  temples  gray, 
My  husband,  in  their  life-blood  lay. 
And  how  I  'scaped,  I  cannot  say, 
But  for  the  baby  nursling  at  my  breast, 
With  them  I  would  have  gone  to  rest. 

Life  was  the  harder  lot, 
Yet  ever  that  reproachful  eye 
Gazed  on  me  when  I  wished  to  die. 

And  chained  me  to  the  spot. 
'I  fear  thee,  babe  !'  I  fain  would  sigh 

At  night,  in  whispers  low, 
To  the  weak  thing,  too  young  to  know 

What  speech  did  signify, 


*  Col.  William  Crawford  was  taken  captive,  and  burned  by  the  In- 
dians, in  Wyandot  county,  Ohio,  in  1782.  To  his  supplication  for  life, 
a  chief  who  had  formerly  been  his  friend  replied,  that  it  might  have 
been  granted,  but  for  the  recent  massacre  by  the  whites  under 
Williamson. 


42  THE   WESTERN    HOME. 

'I  fear  thee,  babe !  Stronger  than  fate  thou  art, 
Stronger  than  woman's  heart, 

Thou  wilt  not  let  me  die !' 
A  booth  I  built,  of  branches  rude, 
O'ermastering  cliffs  the  solitude 

Kept  secret  where  we  shrank, 
God  fed  us  like  his  mven  brood, 

And  of  the  l)rook  we  drank. 
He  was  a  noble  boy  and  mild, 
I  fondly  watched  him  as  he  smiled. 

Yet  could  not  smile  on  him. 
For  sounding  ever  in  my  ear 
Was  a  great  cry  of  death  and  fear, 

Like  river  rushing  o'er  its  brim ; 
And  o'er  my  brain  at  midnight  hour 
Flashed  the  same  flame  of  fearfal  power 

That  on  our  village  fed, 
When  of  its  life,  both  root  and  flower 

Were  crushed  among  the  dead. 
And  thus  we  lived  from  day  to  day, 
Until  God  took  my  child  away ; 
And  when  I  laid  him  down  in  clay, 

I  wept  not  o'er  that  bed  so  cool  and  low. 
But  laugh'd  aloud  to  think  he  was  set  free 
From  man's  demoniac  tyranny. 

And  ne'er  their  misery  could  know, 


to? 


THE   WESTERN   HOME.  43 

Wlio,  struggling  with  a  mortal  wound, 
Ai^e  in  their  home's  hot  ashes  diwvned. 


"Still,  close  beside  that  little  mound, 

Year  after  year  I  dwell ; 
There  doth  the  earliest  blue-bird  sing, 
There  spreads  the  moth  its  milk-white  wino;. 

And,  cowering  in  its  leafy  cell. 
The  arbutus  sweet  is  found. 
I  drive  away  the  screaming  owl,    . 
And  all  unsightly  beasts  that  prowl 

My  baby's  couch  beside. 
0  friends  !  your  tears  are  falling  fast. 
Heaven  shield  ye  from  the  m-ecking  blast 

That  sweeps  life's  ocean  cold ; 
God  give  ye,  when  its  billows  moan, 
The  pity  you  to  me  have  shown — 

Christ  keep  ye  in  his  fold ! 


Yet  deem  not,  though  my  sky  be  dark, 

!N"o  star  benignant  cheers ; 
Though  thwarting  tides  may  check  the  bark, 

It  toward  its  haven  steers. 
The  skill  that  with  our  tribes  doth  dwell, 
Each  holy  plant  of  health  to  tell, 
Lends  solace  to  my  path  of  wo. 


44  THE   WESTERN   HOME. 

Where  hide  those  precious  roots  I  know, 

Where  sleep  their  germs  'neath  trackless  snow ; 

And  at  what  starry  node  or  sign 

To  make  them  in  their  vigour  mine. 

In  mine  own  lodge  those  stores  I  lay ; 

And  when  it  pleaseth  God  to  say 

That  by  their  aid  the  pains  that  fall 

On  his  frail  children  of  the  clay 
I  may  assuage  or  heal, 
Roused  at  the  blessed  call, 
No  more  my  loneliness  I  feel, 
No  more  at  sorrow  I  repine. 

They  all  have  fled  away. 
"Yea,  and  I  thank  Him  that  his  hand 
Ilatli  left  me  desolate  and  lone ; 
Like  sparrow  to  the  house-top  flown 

I  spy  a  better  land. 
My  soul,  where  earth's  last  hope  is  dim. 

And  quenched  all  love  and  pride, 
Springs  up,  and  takes  strong  hold  on  Him, 

And  will  not  be  denied." 

No  tear-drop  glittered  in  her  eye. 
Those  burning  orbs  were  red  and  dr}^, 
And  on  her  bosom  l^owed  her  head, 
When  the  sad  tale  of  wo  was  said. 


THE   WESTERN   HOME.  45 

Years  held  their  course  ^dth  cloudless  mien, 
And  still  the  olive  branch  serene 

Our  youthful  country  bore ; 
While  population,  closing  round, 
Sprinkled  with  homes  the  cultured  ground. 

On  fair  Ohio's  shore. 
And  well  had  Walter's  patient  hand. 
That  broke  the  glebe  and  tilled  the  land. 

Been  by  its  fruits  repaid, 
'Nor  yet  had  Mary's  prudent  care 
E'er  failed  its  fitting  part  to  bear ; 
Hence  rose  a  mansion  large  and  fair. 

As  wealth  and  numbers  bade. 
There  too,  in  simple  guise  and  free, 
Eeigned  heartfelt  hospitality — 

The  Genius  of  the  Yf  est, 
Such  as,  perchance,  in  Mamre's  tent 
Its  patriarchal  welcome  lent ; 
Though  not,  alas  !  too  often  blest. 
In  modern  times,  with  angel-guest. 

The  shelter  of  his  roof  to  claim, 
Once,  to  St.  Clair  a  stranger  came ; 
Of  stature  small,  yet  port  of  pride, 
Sjmimetrical  and  dignified ; 


46  THE    WESTERN   HOME. 

With  martial  air  and  fluent  speech, 
And  manners  such  as  courts  might  teach, 

And  such  a  piercing  eye. 
So  hlack,  so  keen,  so  deeply  set, 
I  deem,  whoe'er  that  glance  had  met, 

Lost  not  its  memory. 

"With  legends  old,  of  classic  store. 
And  his  own  nation's  fresher  lore, 

He  ruled  the  attentive  ear ; 
Nor  spared  the  gloss  of  fl.attery 
To  the  young  group  that  gathered  nigh. 
What  mother's  heart  that  leaps  not  high 

Her  children's  praise  to  hear  ? 
One  had  a  fairy  step  and  air, 
Bright  sunbeams  tinged  another's  hair, 
And  violets  had  expressed  their  hue 
To  give  the  babe  its  eyes  of  blue. 
That  boy  in  camp  or  court  might  rule. 
And  this  surpass  his  mates  at  school, 
While  from  one  noble  brow  there  shone 
The  Fabian  glance  of  Washington. 

Yet  still  strange  mystery  wrapped  him  round. 
And  day  by  day,  as  arm  in  arm 


THE   WESTERN   UOME.  47 

He  paced  with  Walter  o'er  his  gi^oimd, 
And  heedful  marked  its  utmost  bound, 

He  ruled  him  with  a  wizard  charm. 
The  iDlough  was  in  its  furrow  stayed, 
The  swains  stood  idhng  in  the  shade, 

Their  master's  will  to  know ; 
Much  wondering  one  so  prompt  to  tell 
Each  hour's  allotted  business  well, 

All  order  should  forego. 

But  Mary  soon,  ^vith  altered  air 

And  cold  averted  eye, 
Accorded  the  accustomed  care 

Of  hospitality, 
While  for  her  husband's  weal  a  prayer 

Ascended  silently. 
I  will  not  say  what  instinct  blest 

Had  started  to  her  side, 
What  shield  of  diamond  armed  her  breast. 
And  taught  with  woman's  tact  to  read 
A  clause  within  the  tempter's  creed. 

By  others  undescried. 

Once,  as  she  watched  alone  and  late, 
Great  was  her  joy  to  hear 


48  THE   WESTERN   HOME. 

The  entering  husband  close  his  gate, 

ISTor  other  footstep  near. 
But  his  pale  brow  was  marked  wdth  care, 
As  by  her  side  he  drew  his  chair, 

Claiming  her  private  ear 
And  tender  sympathy. 
"  Maiy  St.  Olair ! — ^know'st  thou  that  we 

A  fiend  have  harboured  here  ? 
A  traitor  who  would  burst  in  twain 
The  sacred,  blood-cemented  chain 

That  binds  our  country  dear ! 
Canst  thou  believe  that  Aaron  Burr, 
Conspirator  and  murderer, 

Ilath  sunned  him  in  our  household  smile  ? 
Shrank  not  his  foot  the  soil  to  tread, 

His  victim's  name  that  bore  ?* 
Did  not  his  heart  in  secret  quake, 
As  cried  that  blood,  with  voice  of  dread, 

From  far  "Weehawken's  shore  ? 
"Where  fell,  beneath  his  ruthless  hand, 
The  mightiest  statesman  of  our  land, 
A  mart}^'  to  his  own  mistake 

And  the  assassin's  wile. 

*  That  part  of  Ohio  was  in  a  county  bearing  the  name  of  Hamil- 
ton. 


THE   WESTERN    HOME.  49 

Fool  that  I  was  to  lend  an  ear 

To  words  of  glozing  guile ; 
My  blessed  Mary,  speak!" 
But  first  her  fond  lips  dried  the  tear 

That  coursed  adown  his  cheek. 

"!N"aught  of  the  treason  could  I  know 
That  he  to  you  hath  deigned  to  show, 
Yet  was  I  oft  constrained  to  see 
That  false  in  principle  was  he, 

^N'or  bound  by  God's  most  holy  fear. 
Husband  !  we'll  name  his  name  no  more, 
Save  when  devotion's  flame  decays, 
And  we  would  wake  a  warmer  praise 

To  our  Protector,  strong  and  dear, 
Who  broke  the  snare,  the  victory  gained, 
And  left  the  spirit's  wing  unstained." 

Whoe'er  hath  stemmed  Ohio's  flood. 
Where  infant  Marietta  stood. 

And  gazed,  from  helm  or  prow, 

On  lavish  ^N'ature's  show. 
Might  start  to  view,  on  emerald  isle, 
A  lofty,  castellated  pile, 
With  tower  and  turret  rising  high. 
In  feudal  pride  and  blazonry ; 

6 


50  THE   WESTERN   HOME. 

Or,  landing  mid  the  flower-decked  sod, 
Miglit  deem  Calypso's  realm  he  trod, 

For  Blennerhasset's  gold 
Had,  with  magician's  wand,  upreared 

A  palace  in  the  wold. 

What  graceful  form  on  noble  steed 
Is  seen  where  parting  groves  recede  ? 
Whose  scarlet  robes,  bedight  with  gold, 
Sweep  his  gray  flank  in  ample  fold ; 
While,  as  the  fresher  zephyrs  blow. 
Her  ostrich  plumes  float  forth  like  snow  ? 
'Scaped  from  her  hat,  her  flaxen  hair, 
Her  ivory  throat  and  forehead  bare, 
Shun  not  to  meet  the  buxom  air, 
Some  high-born  lady  sure  is  she, 
For  whom  the  soul  of  chivalry 
Miffht  lift  the  lance  or  bend  the  knee. 
So  fearlessly  she  wields  the  rein. 
That,  as  her  courser  skims  the  plain, 

She  seems  of  him  a  part ; 
Yet  not  by  feats  of  grace  alone 
Her  best  accomplishments  are  shown ; 
That  higher,  holier  charm  she  bears, 
By  which  a  wife  and  mother's  cares 

Attract  and  mould  the  heart. 


THE  WESTERN  HOME.  51 

And  Blennertiasset  scarce  can  hide 
The  promptings  of  a  husband's  pride, 

As  one  so  fair  and  young 
Hangs  o'er  the  classic  page  sublime, 
Or  pours  the  speech  of  many  a  clime 

Mellifluent  from  her  tongue. 

Who  sitteth  in  yon  courtly  hall, 
Where  taste  refined  holds  festival, 
Admiring,  and  admired  of  all  ? 
He  of  slight  form  and  martial  grace, 

And  eye  so  piercing  bright, 
Its  wondrous  ray  illumes  the  place 

With  strange,  unearthly  light  ? 
Methinks  he  seems  some  hidden  snare 
To  spread  with  fascinating  care, 

Both  day  and  night. 

Lord  of  the  Isle !  beware !  beware ! 

A  fiend  beside  thee  lurks ; 
And  by  thy  cold,  abstracted  air. 
Thy  scorn  of  beauty's  gentle  care, 

I  fear  the  poison  works. 
To  prayer  !     Hast  thou  no  Friend  above 
To  snatch  thee  from  the  snare  ? 


52  THE   WESTERN   HOME. 

Alas  !  he  prays  not !     Deaf  to  love, 
Alone  he  roams,  through  bower  and  grove. 
Two  cherub  boys,  so  late  his  pride, 
Are  fain  to  linger  near  his  side, 

With  mournful  mien ; 
Their  voice  he  heeds  not,  save  to  chide, 

Nor  sleeps  he,  save  with  sudden  start. 
And  muttered  cry  of  pain  or  guilt ; 

Ambition  in  his  noble  heart 
Hath  found  a  flaw,  and,  entering,  built 

A  nest  for  birds  unclean. 

Oh  !  summon  science  to  thine  aid. 

For  thou  hast  loved  her  well ; 
And  she  hath  made  thy  sylvan  shade 

Her  favoured  citadel. 
Haste !  raise  thy  tube  and  scan  the  stars. 
Turn  History's  tome  of  woes  and  wars, 
Recall  Hibernia,  seamed  with  scars, 

Thine  own  dear  native  isle ! 
But  patriot  warmth  and  classic  lore, 
Cherished  so  long,  are  prized  no  more ; 

Pure  love,  with  angel  smile. 
Melts  not  ambition's  frost — 
The  spell  is  clenched,  the  man  is  lost. 


THE   WESTERN    HOME.  53 

'Twere  long  to  tell,  and  sore  to  tread, 
Where  Burr  his  hoodwinked  victim  led, 
From  risk  to  risk,  from  loss  to  loss, 

A  dynasty  to  found. 
Which,  like  a  castle  in  the  air. 
When  winds  and  waves  their  banners  toss, 

Sank  baseless  to  the  ground. 
All  burdens  still  his  dupe  must  bear. 
Till,  like  a  bark  on  breakers  tost. 
His  honour  and  his  wealth  were  lost. 

Conspiracy  and  treason  stored 
Grave  charges  'gainst  the  island  lord ; 
Unnumbered  ills  his  steps  await. 
The  felon's  bar,  the  exile's  fate — 
Dark  contrast  to  his  high  estate. 
And  as  the  doom  vindictive  falls. 
His  princely  home  lies  desolate ; 
Soldiers  are  quartered  in  its  halls. 
And  scathing  fires  deface  its  walls ; 
The  trampled  shrubs  and  riven  flowers 
Expire  around  the  rifled  bowers. 
While,  wandering  from  his  loved  domain, 

He  turns  to  realms  beyond  the  sea. 
Appealing  for  redress  in  vain 

From  his  betrayer's  perfidy. 


54  THE   WESTERN    HOME. 

Still,  that  true  wife  is  by  his  side, 
Not  o'er  lost  Paradise  to  sigh, 

But  share  his  lot,  whate'er  betide. 
With  woman's  deathless  constancy. 

Yet  who  shall  lift  with  pity  pale. 

From  future  years  the  incumbent  veil  ? 

Yon  widowed  form, — to  penuiy  left, 

Of  every  earthly  hope  bereft, 

Wlio  sinks  unaided  mid  the  strife, — 

Can  that  be  Blennerhasset's  wife  ? 

— ^At  her  low  grave  by  stranger  hands 

Obscurely  made,  one  mourner  stands, 

A  man*  oppress' d  by  want  and  care, 

A  prey  to  sickness  and  despair. 

Can  that  be  Blennerhasset's  heir? 

— Alas !  that  bitter  streams  should  spread 

So  wide,  from  one  dark  fountain-head. 

Oh  Aaron  Burr ! — with  talents  proud 
To  dazzle  or  control  the  crowd. 
Whose  dauntless  courage  never  quailed. 
Though  dangers  frowned,  or  foes  prevailed, 


*  Herman  Blennerhasset,  the  last  remnant  of  an  unfortunate  and 
once  happy  family,  is  said  still  to  reside  in  New  York,  the  victim  of 
disease  and  poverty. 


THE   WESTERN    HOME. 

I  saw  tliee,  when  thy  sun  drew  low, 

And  fourscore  winters  dimmed  thy  brow, 

And  state  and  wealth  and  friends  had  fled. 

And  all  of  kindred  blood  were  dead, 

Yet  flashed  that  eye,  unquenehed  and  bright. 

Forth  from  the  loneliness  of  night 

And  frost  of  age. — Say,  was  its  light 

Wliat  heaven  on  its  own  planets  turneth  ? — 

Or  from  the  pit  that  ever  burneth  ? — 

— But  thou  art  gone,  nor  would  we  tread 

Thine  ashes  with  too  stern  a  blame. 
For  thou  dost  teach  us  from  the  dead 

A  lesson  that  all  pride  should  tame ; 
That  genius  high  and  morals  base 

Mar  the  great  Giver's  plan, 
And,  like  a  comet's  flaming  race, 
Make  visible  the  deep  disgrace 

Of  His  best  gifts  to  man. 

Still  in  those  cares,  remote  from  strife 
That  marked  the  happy  farmer's  life 

"Walter  St.  Clair  and  Mary  dwelt. 
And  still  their  genial  influence  felt. 
High  health  was  theirs  and  cheerful  thought, 
Sweet  sleep  that  knows  nor  spasm  nor  cry 
Of  undigested  luxury, 


5G  THE   WESTERN    HOME. 

Fond  Love,  unswerving  and  unbouglit, 
For  which  in  vain  the  heart  must  sigh 
That,  moved  by  calculation  cold, 
Its  holiest  vows  hath  bartering  sold 

For  fashion,  or  for  thirst  of  gold. 
The  venal  hand  may  diamonds  link. 
In  velvet  piled  the  foot  may  sink, 
The  lips  from  jewelled  chalice  drink, 
Yet  eveiy  nerve  to  joy  be  dead. 
And  all  the  life  of  feeling  fled 

In  the  heart's  palsied  atrophy. 

Like  the  unfoldings  of  a  dream 

In  transmutation  strange, 
A  swollen,  unquelled,  unebbing  stream, 

Swept  on  the  tide  of  change : 
For  where,  of  old,  from  copse  and  brake 
The  lonely  owl  discordant  spake. 

Or  wolf  and  panther  sprang. 
Where  round  the  settler's  cabin  low 
The  prowling  Indian  bent  his  bow 

Or  savage  war-whoop  rang. 
The  warehouse  peers,  the  merchants  throng. 
The  costly  chariot  rolls  along, 
Tall  spires  like  guardian  angels  bless, 
O'ei-floAvino;  schools  their  lore  impress, 


THE   WESTERN    HOME.  57 

Wliile  tlirough  the  streets,  in  ceaseless  tide, 
A  hundred  thousand  people  glide. 
Walter  and  Mary,  side  by  side 

The  magic  drama  viewed. 
Filled  with  a  patriot's  glowing  pride, 

A  Christian's  gratitude ; 
And  e'er  their  sun  of  life  went  down 

To  its  unclouded  rest, 
Had  Cincinnati  won  her  crown 

Queen  of  the  "West. 


And  they  had  aided,  heart  and  hand 
The  weal  of  that  adopted  land, 

Each  in  their  own  blest  way, 
Of  order,  he,  and  honest  trust 
And  manly  virtues,  pure  and  just, 

Foundation  firm  to  lay, — 
And  she,  in  woman's  quiet  sphere. 
The  plants  of  household  good  to  rear. 
And  light  on  ignorance  to  shed. 
N'or  other  rights  she  coveted 

Than  to  such  sphere  belong. 
Perchance,  at  first,  with  critic  eye 
Her  course  was  scanned  suspiciously, 

Yet  still  in  meekness  strong 


58  THE    WESTERN    HOME. 

She  shared  with  want  her  daily  bread, 
Like  angel  watched  the  sufferer's  bed 
Till  in  her  steps  the  grateful  trod, 
And  praise  for  her  went  up  to  God.  . 


As  strikes  its  root  'neath  tropic  sky 

The  blessed  banian's  canopy, 

ISTor  rests  until  its  stems  have  made 

Deep  continuity  of  shade. 

And  its  impervious  foliage  wove 

For  man  a  bower,  for  birds  a  grove, 

So  stretched  their  life  in  truth  and  grace, 

A  blessing  to  their  numerous  race, 

Wliile  its  sweet  seeds  without  a  thorn 

Sprang  up  to  blossom  for  the  unborn. 

But  when  his  active  years  had  fled. 

And  those  of  rest  drew  nigh. 
Such  form  erect,  elastic  tread, 

And  clear,  observant  eye, 
St.  Clair  retained,  that  those  who  met 
The  pressure  of  his  fiiendly  hand. 

And  smile  of  welcome  cheer, 

Heard  ^^dth  a  skeptic  ear 
That  full  fourscore  their  seal  had  set 

Upon  his  features  bland. 


THE   WESTERN    HOME.  59 

Dewed  was  liis  grave  with  many  a  tear 
That  mourned  the  honored  x^ioneer, 
Who  with  a  chain  of  bright  good  mil  had  clasped  his 
young  country  dear. 
Oh !  let  such  links  be  multiplied, 
And  mth  their  heart-wove  net- work  wide 

Bind  north  to  south,  and  east  to  west : — 
^or  aught  thy  unity  molest. 
My  Land !  around  whose  cradle-bed 
The  glorious  fathers  prayed  and  bled, 
And  mingled  with  their  battle-cry 
The  watch-word, — God  and  Liberty. — 

Awhile  beyond  her  life's  best  friend 
Did  Mary's  pilgrimage  extend. 
Darkened,  but  not  dismayed ; 
For  on  an  Arm  divinely  strong 
Leaning  in  faith,  she  passed  along 

The  solitary  shade ; 
And  beautiful  it  was  to  see 
What  tender,  filial  ministiy 

Her  faithful  cares  repaid. 
There  are,  who  deem  that  age  must  be 

Ever  unlovely  to  the  sight. 
That  when  the  locks  grow  thin  and  white 

ISTo  charm  can  light  the  face. 


60  THE   WESTERN   HOME. 

Yet  every  season  hath  its  grace 
To  the  meek  eye  that  skills  to  trace 
And  read  God's  works  aright. 

Young  childi'cn  clustering  round  her  chair, 
Iler  wealth  of  storied  lore  to  share, 
Believed  that  beauty  still  was  there ; 
And  youth  who  lingered  at  her  side, 
Seeking  her  wisdom  for  their  guide, 

Beheld,  mth  reverent  air, 
That  holy  smile  of  calm  content, 
The  twilight  of  a  life  well  spent, — 
Kindness  no  diifering  creed  could  hound^ 
"Warm  sympathy  for  all  around, — 
While  still  her  beaming  eye  confest 
The  joy  of  making  others  blest. 
So,  when  in  hope  serene 
She  changed  this  earthly  scene 
Love's  tear  upon  her  pillow  lay. 
And  hallowed  memories  from  the  burial  clay 
Sprang  up  in  fadeless  green. 


MEMORY. 

The  past  slie  ruleth.     At  lier  touch 

Its  temple  valves  unfold, 
And  from  their  gorgeous  slirines  descend 

The  mighty  men  of  old. 
At  her  deep  voice  the  dead  reply, 

Dry  bones  are  clothed  and  live. 
Long-perished  garlands  bloom  anew, 

And  buried  joys  revive. 

When  o'er  ihQ  future  many  a  shade 

Of  saddening  twilight  steals. 
Or  the  dimmed  present  to  the  soul 

Its  emptiness  reveals. 
She  opes  her  casket,  and  a  cloud 

Of  cheering  perfume  streams. 
Till  with  a  lifted  heart  we  tread 

The  pleasant  land  of  dreams. 


61 


62  MEMORY. 

Make  friends  of  potent  Memory, 

O  young  man,  in  tliy  prime ; 
And  with  her  jewels  bright  and  rare, 

Enrich  the  hoard  of  Time, 
For,  if  thou  mockest  her  \vith  weeds, 

A  trifler  mid  her  bowers. 
She'll  send  a  poison  through  thy  veins, 

In  life's  disastrous  hours. 

Make  friends  of  potent  Memory, 

O  maiden,  in  thy  bloom ; 
And  bind  her  to  thine  inmost  heart, 

Before  the  days  of  gloom. 
For  sorrow  softeneth  into  joy 

Beneath  her  wand  sublime, 
And  she  immortal  robes  can  weave 

From  the  frail  threads  of  Time. 


THE   MOHAWK   WAEEIOR. 


Stretched  on  Ms  bed  of  skins,  tlie  Panther  lay, 
The  warrior  of  the  Mohawks.     Low  and  dark 
Was  his  lone  cabin,  near  the  Ijrawling  stream, 
While  o'er  its  walls  the  hunter's  shaggy  spoils 
Profusely  hung.     In  the  stone  chimney  rude, 
The  flame  went  crackling  up. 

But  there  he  lay, 
That  gray-haired  chieftain,  to  arise  no  more. 
His  son,  the  sole  companion  of  the  lodge, 
Was  by  his  side.     Immovable  he  stood, 
Like  a  tall  bronzed  statue,  sculptured  bold, 
In  massive  strength. 

Symmetrical  was  he. 
That  warlike  sire,  whose  frame  had  scorned  to  bend 
'Keath  ninety  winters,  and  whose  deep-set  eye 
Flashed  in  its  struggle  with  an  unseen  foe, 
Plucking  his  heart-strings. 

63 


64  THE   MOHAWK  WARRIOR. 

Painfully  he  spake : 
''  Son  of  the  Fawn !  the  Tanther  leaps  no  more ; 
Ills  teeth  no  more  are  terrible.     Time  was" — 
On  his  chill  lip  the  laboured  accents  died. 
Still  o'er  him  swept  the  past,  the  battle-cry, 
The  forest-hunt,  the  midnight  council-fire. 
"  Time  was'' — 

In  vain  he  strove,  a  smothered  groan 
O'ercame  his  utterance.     Yet  the  anguish  passed. 
And  he,  whose  strength  had  never  quailed  before. 
Exhausted,  slumbered  like  a  helpless  child. 

He  woke,  and  by  him  stood  that  statued  son. 
Watching  the  spoiler's  progress  o'er  his  brow, 
With  a  red,  restless  eye. 

''Air!  air!''  he  cried. 
With  a  \^dld  gasp.     Upon  its  utmost  hinge 
The  rough  door  swung.     The  lungs,  collapsing,  caught 
That  blessed  draught,  and  light  to  heart  and  eye 
Spontaneous  sprang. 

Once  more  the  sufferer  marked 
The  brook  contending  with  the  fitful  winds. 
While  the  full  autumn-moon,  through  parted  boughs. 
Silvered  the  flashing  waters,  as  they  plunged 
O'er  a  steep  ledge. 

On  the  fair  sight  he  fed. 


THE    MOHAWK    WARRIOR.  65 

"With  mstfal  glance,  as  one  wlio  takes  his  leave, 
IN'e'er  to  return.     His  long  and  toil-worn  life 
Seemed  as  a  span,  while  a  sharp  lance's  point 
Traced  hurrying  scenes  on  memory's  shrivelled  scroll. 

"I  sing  no  death  song.     War,  that  once  I  loved, 
Fades  in  its  own  foul  smoke.     But,  she  is  there — 
There,  by  that  stream's  green  edge.     Just  so  the  moon 
Looked  down  upon  us,  when  she  first  was  mine. 
Child  of  the  Fawn !  her  eye  was  like  its  beam 
On  yonder  troubled  waters.     When  I  came 
Wearied  from  hunting,  or  the  strife  of  men, 
Such  was  it  in  my  soul. 

She  waits  me  still — 
She,  whom  alone  I  loved.     She  waits  me  there. 
In  yon  bright  forests,  where  our  unquelled  sires 
Eoam  as  of  old. 

I'll  tell  her  in  her  ear. 
That  thou  dost  linger,  by  the  river's  biink 
So,  to  this  cabin  we'll  together  come, 
And  talk  with  thee." 

Breath  failed  him,  for  he  spake 
Eapid  and  fervent.     He  who  ne'er  had  known 
A  dear  Eedeemer's  dying  love,  or  heard 
The  angel's  song,  ''peace  and  good-will  to  men," 
Turned  to  the  one  lone  day-star  of  his  course, 


GQ  THE   MOHAWK   WARRIOR. 

And  the  pure  passion  of  his  heart's  first  love 
Shed  light  on  death's  grim  face. 

"I  made  her  grave 
By  the  great  western  lake.     Deep,  deep  and  dark ! 
The  mound  i's  high  above  it.     The  blue  waves 
Break  round  its  feet.     Thy  mother  slumbers  there. 
I'll  go  and  see  that  grave  before  I  die." 

Half  from  his  bed  he  sprang.     The  giant  limbs 
Which  like  the  oak  that  braves  a  century's  wrath, 
Had  never  failed,  grew  rigid. 

Back,  he  fell. 
Dashing  the  water  from  the  hand  that  fain 
His  parching  lips  would  lave,  and  with  glazed  eyes 
Gibbered  and  murmured,  as  delirium  claimed 
Tyrannic  service  from  a  stiffening  tongue. 
Then,  mid  a  labyrinth  of  sighs  and  smiles, 
And  moans,  and  snatches  of  unuttered  words, 
And  shivering  spasms,  to  which  the  worn-out  nen^es 
Scarce  gave  sensation,  or  response  of  pain, 
Death  came  and  did  his  work,  and  the  dark  clay 
Lay  still,  before  him. 

And  that  lonely  lodge 
Of  the  fierce  Panther  of  the  Mohawks,  heard 
Naught  save  the  loud  lamenting  of  his  son ; 
For  pride  no  lo  igcr  chocked  the  filial  flood, 


THE   MOHAWK   WARRIOR.  67 

Wnen  none  were  near  to  say,  "  Our  chieftain  weej)9." 
So  there  he  stood,  an  emblem  of  his  race 
Whose  glory  had  departed.     There  he  drooped, 
And  moaned,  till  dawn  had  sped  on  pinions  gray. 
And  day  came  freshly  forth. 

But  then  he  strode, 
"With  steadfast  step,  and  eye  that  told  no  tale 
Of  the  heart's  secret  grief,  and  spake  unmoved 
The  summons  to  his  tribe,  who  mournful  came 
Flocking  with  heads  declined,  to  lay  the  bones 
Of  their  old  warrior  in  an  honoured  tomb. 


THE   SPRING  CONCERT. 

Come,  come  to  the  concert  of  gladness  and  glee, 
The  programme  is  ricli,  and  the  tickets  are  free. 
In  a  grand  vaulted  hall,  where's  there's  room,  and  to 

spare. 
With  no  gas-lights  to  eat  up  the  oxygen  there. 
The  musicians  are  skilled  in  their  wonderful  art, 
Tliey  have  compass  of  voice,  and  the  gamut  by  heart. 
They  travelled  abroad  in  the  "svinter  recess. 
And  sang  to  great  crowds  with  unbounded  success. 
And  now  'tis  a  favour  and  privilege  rare 
Their  arrival  to  hail,  and  their  melodies  share  : 

These  exquisite  minstrels  a  fashion  have  set, 

Which  they  hope  you'll  comply  with,  and  will  not  regret — 

They  don't  keep  late  hours,  for  they've  always  been  told 

'T would  injure  their  voices,  and  make  them  look  old ; 

But  invite  you  to  come,  if  you  have  a  fine  ear, 

To  the  garden  or  grove,  their  rehearsals  to  hear. 


THE   SPRING   CONCERT.  69 


Their  chorus  is  full  ere  the  sunbeam  is  born, 
Their  music  is  sweetest  at  breaking  of  morn ; 
'Twas  learned  at  Heaven's  gate,  with  its  rapturous  lays^ 
And  may  teach  you,  perchance,  its  own  spirit  of  praise. 


THE   SPIRIT   OF   BEAUTY. 

Spirit  of  beauty,— who  dost  love  to  dwell 
In  tlie  pure  chalice  of  yon  new-born  flower, 

That  unrepining  shares  my  wdntiy  cell, 
And  from  my  hand  receives  the  mimic  shower ; 

Spirit, — w^ho  hoverest  o'er  the  babe's  repose. 
Where  guardian  angels  bend  with  viewless  kiss, 

Counting  the  innocence  no  guile  that  knows 
A  faint  reflection  of  their  higher  bliss ; 

Spirit, — who  on  the  humblest  lip  doth  rest. 

That  uttereth  words  of  Idndness, — and  art  seen 

In  the  calm  sunshine  of  the  lowly  breast, 
Garnering  its  treasure  in  a  clime  serene  ; 

Spirit, — who,  mid  the  smile  of  holy  age. 
Closing  its  course  in  hope,  dost  make  abode, 

Though  Time  hath  ploughed  the  brow  wdth  tjTantrage, 
And  scattered  snows  where  sunny  tresses  flowed ; 


THE   SPIRIT   OF  BEAUTY.  71 

Sweet  Spirit,  trembling  through  the  loneliest  star 
That  the  storm-driven  mariner  descries, 

And  from  the  rush-light,  when  its  beam  afar 
Eye  of  his  cot — the  way-worn  peasant  spies : 

Blest  Spirit,  touch  our  hearts,  and  as  the  child, 
Wlio  toward  his  parents'  home  doth  singing  hie, 

Espies  some  wanderer,  shivering  on  the  wild. 
And  leads  him  onward  with  a  pitying  eje, 

So,  point  us  to  our  Father ! — He  who  bade 
Thee  in  this  wilderness  his  way  prepare. 

And  by  thy  pure,  refining  influence  aid 

Upward  to  Him, — First  perfect  and  First  fair. 


GETHSEMANE. 

There  was  a  garden  near  Jerusalem, 

Where  Jesus  went  to  pray ;  not  the  fair  breast 

Of  OHvet,  beloved  by  Kidron's  wave, 

But  wrapped  in  denser  shades,  and  deeper  veiled, 

For  the  soul's  secrecy. 

Thither  he  went. 
With  his  disciples,  when  his  course  on  earth 
Drew  near  a  close.     It  was  a  moonless  night, 
And  heavily  he  drooped,  as  one  who  bears 
An  inward  burden.     Drear  Gethsemane 
Gave  him  no  welcome,  when  his  weary  feet 
Paused  at  its  portal.     Almost  it  might  seem 
That  Nature,  with  prophetic  eye,  foresaw 
The  sufferings  of  her  Lord.     With  its  rough  cones, 
The  terebinth  did  tremble,  and  the  buds 
That  Spring  had  early  wakened,  hid  their  heads 
Again  in  their  turf  cradles,  tearfully. 

72 


GETHSEMANE.  73 

A  horror  of  great  darkness  fell  on  Him 
"Wlio  wrondit  the  world's  salvation. 

Unto  tliose, 
Who  at  His  call  had  left  the  fisher's  coat, 
And  the  receipt  of  custom,  and  had  shared 
His  daily  bread,  He  turned ;  for  in  the  hour 
Of  bitter  anguish,  sympathy  is  dear, 
Even  from  the  humblest. 

Unto  them  He  turned, 
But  they  were  gone, — gone  !  and  He  searching  found 
That  heavy-eyed  and  self-indulgent  band 
Stretched  out,  in  sleep  supine.     They  took  their  rest, 
While  He,  who  for  their  sakes  had  toiled  and  taught, 
And  healed  their  sickness  and  supplied  their  need, 
And  walked  at  midnight  on  the  raging  sea. 
Strove  with  the  powers  of  darkness.     Eising  tides 
Of  grieved,  untiring,  unrequited  Love 
Mixed  with  the  question  from  those  lips  divine, 
"  Could  ye  not  watch  one  liourT' 

Then,  He  withdrew 
Again,  and  prayed.     The  mournful  olives  bent, 
Weaving  their  branches  round  him  tenderly, 
And  sighed  and  thrilled,  through  all  theu'  listening 

leaves. 
Paler  than  marble  was  the  brow  that  pressed 

7 


74  GETHSEMANE. 

The  matted  grass,  leaving  the  blood-print  there, 
Yea,  the  red  blood-print. 

Oh,  Gethsemane ! 
Draw  closer  thy  dark  veil.     I  would  not  see 
My  Saviour's  agony. 

Yet  not  alone 
Passed  that  dread  hour,  though  His  disciples  slept, 
There  was  a  pitying  spirit  of  the  skies 
Who  wept  and  wondered,  and  from  odorous  ^vings 
Shed  balm  ambrosial  on  the  sufferer's  head. 

"Would  that  I  knew  Ms  name,  who  thus  did  stand 
Near  our  Kedeemer,  when  both  earth  and  heaven 
Forsook  his  fainting  soul.     There  was  a  sound 
Like  rushing  pinions  of  a  seraph  host ; 
But  wildering  awe  and  unsolved  mystery 
Enchained  them  in  mid-air,  and  only  one 
Came  down  to  comfort  Him. 

Thou  who  didst  bear 
Unuttered  pangs  for  an  ungrateful  race, 
Eemember  us,  when  desolate,  and  lone. 
In  our  Gethsemanes,  we  agonize, 
Imploring  God  to  take  the  cup  away. 
And  shrinking,  in  our  poverty  of  faith. 
To  add  the  words,  that  make  His  will,  our  own. 


GETHSEMANE. 


75 


Thou,  who  amid  Heaven's  bhss,  forgettest  not 
The  weakness  of  the  claj  Thou  once  didst  wear, 
Nor  how  the  shafts  of  pain  do  trouble  it, 
Send  us  a  strengthening  angel,  in  our  need,— 
Oh !  be  Thyself  that  angel. 


WILD  FLOWEKS. 

Flowers  of  God's  planting ! — Man  doth  call  ye  wild, 

Though  in  your  breasts  a  gentle  nature  lies, 
And  timidly  ye  meet  the  breezes^  mild, 

Paying  their  love-kiss  with  your  perfumed  sighs. 
Still,  with  unuttered  speech, 
More  true  philosophy  ye  teach, 
Than  they,  your  rich-robed  relatives,  who  share 
The  florist's  tender  care. 
And  shrink  with  jfretted  nerves  from  the  too  buxom  air. 

Methinks  their  polished  petals  hide 
Some  thrill  of  vanity  or  pride. 
As  the  admiring  throng 
Through  the  rich  green-house  press  along, 
Where  still  they  claim,  in  proud  magnificence, 
A  warmer   smile   than    Heaven's   own   healthful   skies 
dispense, 

76 


UNCULTURED    FLOWERS.  77 

Or  lulled  on  beauty's  breast 
To  a  brief  dream  of  rapturous  rest, 
Too  soon — with  pale,  regretful  eye 
Fulfil  their  envied  destiny,  and  die. 

But  ye,  in  humble  cell, 
Cloven  nook  or  grassy  dell, 
Or  by  the  brooklet's  shaded  brim, 
Turn  in  your  trustful  innocence  to  Him, 
"Who  wisely  metes  the  sun-beam  and  the  rain ; 
Or  else  the  plough-share's  fatal  pain, 
Or  even  the  crushing  foot  repay 
With  a  forgiving  fragrance — and  beneath 
The  same  loved  skies  that  gave  you  birth, 
On  prairie  broad,  or  purple  heath, 
Pass  willingly  away 
From  your  slight  hold  on  earth. 

Perchance,  with  longer  date 
Gladdening  the  field-bee,  at  her  work  elate, 
Ye  nurse  your  buds,  and  give  your  winged  seeds 
Unto  the  winnowing  winds,  to  sow  them  as  they  fly 
In  fertile  soil,  or  mid  the  choking  weeds 
Or  desert  sands,  where  the  rank  serpent  feeds ; 
Then,  not  of  death  afraid. 
All  unreluctantly  ye  fade, 


78  UNCULTURED   FLOWERS. 

Meek  as  ye  bloomed  at  first,  in  glen,  or  forest-glade, 

Bequeathing  a  sweet  memoiy 
Unto  the  scented  turf,  where  erst  ye  grew, 
And  garnered  in  your  souls  the  heaven-distiUing  dew. 

Oh,  fair,  uncultured  flowers  ! 
The  charm  of  childhood's  roving  hours, 
Who  seek  no  praise  of  man — ^have  ye  not  caught 

The  spirit  of  His  \ovAj  thought, 
Wlio  loved  the  frail  field-lily — and  the  bird 
By  whom  its  breast  was  stirred  ? 
And  on  his  mountain-shrine 
With  eloquence  divine 
From  its  unfolded  leaves,  as  from  a  text  book,  taught  ? 

Yes — still  ye  show,  in  lessons  undefiled. 
The  Christian  life  and  death,  though  man  doth  call  ye  wild. 


DEATH   OF   CAEDINAL   MAZARIN. 


Tivo  months,    the  questioned  healer  said, 

And  turned  liim  from  the  place, 
Wliile  every  tint  of  colour  fled 

That  dark  Italian  face, — 
Heart-struck  was  he,  whom  France  obeyed, 

Peasant,  and  prince,  and  peer, 
And  with  the  clank  of  fetters  made 

Rich  music  for  his  ear. 

Proud  Ann  of  Austria  lowest  bent 

With  subjugated  soul. 
And  Ludovicus  Magnus  scarce        .  ♦ 

Withstood  his  stern  control, 
Wliile  distant  nations  feared  the  man 

Wlio  ruled  in  court  and  bower ; 
Yet  those  slight  words  dissolved  the  spell 

Of  all  his  pomp  and  power. 


80  DEATH    OF    CARDINAL    MAZARIN. 

Before  liim  passed  his  portioned  line, 

Mancini's  haugtity  race, 
Jewels  and  coronets  they  wore, 

"With  cold  and  thankless  grace ; 
And  for  a  payment  poor  as  this, 

Had  he  his  conscience  grieved  ? 
And  marred  with  perjured  hand  the  cross 

His  priestly  vow  received  ? 

Beside  him  strode  a  spectral  form, 

Still  whispering  in  his  ear, 
"•Make  restitution!''  fearful  sound. 

That  none  besides  might  hear ; 
''Make  restitution r'  But  the  spoil 

From  earth  and  ocean  wrung, 
By  countless  chains  and  wreathed  hands, 

Around  his  spirit  clung. 

'' Two  months  !  two  months !''  these  frightful  words 

Could  all  his  peace  destroy. 
And  poison  the  enamelled  cup 

Where  sparkled  every  joy. 
They  met  him  in  the  courtly  hall, 

They  silenced  song  and  tale. 
Like  those  dead  fingers  on  the.  wall 

That  1  limed  Belshazzar  pale. 


DEATH    OF    CARDINAL    MAZARIN.  81 

Once  in  his  velvet  chair  he  dreamed. 


But  rocking  to  and  fro, 
His  restless  foiTii  and  heaving  breast 

Betrayed  a  rankling  wo : 
^''Two  months!  two  months P'  he  murmured  deep, 

Those  fatal  words  were  there, 
To  grave  upon  his  broken  sleep 

The  image  of  despair. 

Uncounted  wealth  his  coffers  told, 

From  rifled  king  and  clime, 
His  flashing  gems  might  empires  buy. 

But  not  an  hour  of  time, 
No !  not  a  moment.     Inch  by  inch. 

Where'er  he  bent  his  way, 
That  grim  pursuer  steadfast  gained 

Upon  the  shrinking  prey. 

His  pulseless  hand  a  casket  clutched. 

Though  Death  was  near  his  side, 
And  'neath  the  pillow  lurked  a  scroll 

He  might  no  longer  hide  ; 
While  buried  heaps  of  hoarded  gain 

In  rust  and  darkness  laid, 
Bore  witness  to  the  Omniscient  Eye 

Like  an  accusino*  shade. 


82  DEATH  OF  CARDINAL  MAZARIN. 

But  on  the  Kiiisc  of  Terrors  came 

With  stroDg,  relentless  hold, 
And  shook  the  shuddering  miser  loose 

From  all  his  idol  gold, 
And  poorer  than  the  peasant  hind 

That  humhly  ploughs  the  sod, 
Went  forth  that  disembodied  mind 

To  stand  before  its  God. 


FALLEN  .FORESTS. 

Man's  warfare  on  the  trees  is  terrible. 
He  lifts  his  rude  hut  in  the  wilderness, 
And,  lo !  the  loftiest  trunks,  that  age  on  age 
Were  nurtured  to  nobility,  and  bore 
Their  summer  coronets  so  gloriously, 
Fall  with  a  thunder  sound  to  rise  no  more. 

He  toucheth  flame  unto  them,  and  they  lie 
A  blackened  wreck,  their  tracery  and  wealth 
Of  sky-fed  emerald,  madly  spent,  to  feed 
An  arch  of  brilliance  for  a  single  night, 
And  scaring  thence  the  wild  deer,  and  the  fox. 
And  the  lithe  squirrel  from  the  nut-strewn  home. 
So  long  enjoyed. 

He  lifts  his  puny  arm. 
And  every  echo  of  the  axe  doth  hew 
The  iron  heart  of  centuries  away. 
He  entereth  boldly  to  the  solemn  groves 
On  whose  green  altar  tops,  since  time  was  young 


84  FALLEN   FORESTS. 

The  winged  birds  have  poured  their  incense  stream 
Of  praise  and  love,  within  whose  mighty  nave 
The  wearied  cattle  from  a  thousand  hills 
Have  found  their  shelter  mid  the  heat  of  day ; 
Perchance  in  their  mute  worship  pleasing  Him 
"Who  careth  for  the  meanest  He  hath  made. 
I  said,  he  entereth  to  the  sacred  groves 
Where  nature  in  her  beauty  bows  to  God, 
And,  lo !  their  temple  arch  is  desecrate. 
Sinks  the  sweet  hymn,  the  ancient  ritual  fades, 
And  uptorn  roots  and  prostrate  columns  mark 
The  invader's  footsteps. 

Silent  years  roll  on. 
His  babes  are  men.     His  ant-heap  dwelling  grows 
Too  narrow — for  his  hand  hath  gotten  wealth. 
He  builds  a  stately  mansion,  but  it  stands 
Unblessed  by  trees.     He  smote  them  recklessly 
"When  their  green  arms  w^ere  round  him,  as  a  guard 
Of  tutelary  deities,  and  feels 
Their  maledictions,  now  the  burning  noon 
Maketh  his  spirit  faint.     With  anxious  care, 
He  casteth  acorns  in  the  earth,  and  woos 
Sunbeam  and  rain ;  he  planteth  the  young  shoot. 
And  props  it  from  the  storm ;  but  neither  he, 
Nor  yet  his  chikben's  children,  shall  behold 
What  he  hath  sw^ept  away. 


FALLEN    FORESTS.  85 


Methinks,  'twere  well 


Kot  as  a  spoiler  or  a  tliief  to  prey 

On  E"ature's  bosom,  that  sweet,  gentle  nurse 

"Wlio  lovetli  us,  and  spreads  a  sheltering  couch 

"When  our  brief  task  is  o'er.     O'er  that  green  mound 

Affection's  hand  may  set  the  willow  tree, 

Or  train  the  cypress,  and  let  none  profane 

Her  pious  care. 

Oh,  Father !  grant  us  grace 
In  all  life's  toils,  so,  with  a  steadfast  hand 
Evil  and  good  to  poise,  as  not  to  pave 
Our  way  with  ^vi^ecks,  nor  leave  our  blackened  name 
A  beacon  to  the  way-worn  mariner. 


VIRGINIA  DARE. 


[  The  first-born  child  of  English  parents  in  the  Western  World  was  the  granddaughter  of 
GoTernor  White,  who  planted  a  short-lived  colony  at  Roanoke,  Virginia,  in  the  year  1587.] 


'TwAS  lovely  in  tlie  deep  greenwood 

Of  old  Yirginia's  glade, 
Ere  tlie  sharp  axe  amid  its  boughs 

A  fearful  chasm  had  made ; 
Long  spikes  of  rich  catalpa  flowers 

Hung  pendent  from  the  tree, 
And  the  magnolia's  ample  cup 

O'ei-flowed  mth  fragrance  free : 

And  through  the  shades  the  antlered  deer 

Like  faiiy  visions  flew, 
And  mighty  vines  from  tree  to  tree 

Their  wealth  of  clusters  threw, 
While  winged  odours  from  the  hills 

Reviving  welcome  bore, 
To  greet  the  stranger  bands  that  came 

From  Albion's  distant  shore. 


VIRGINIA   DARE. 

Up  rose  their  roofs  in  copse  and  dell, 

Outpealed  the  labourer's  horn, 
And  gra<3eM  through  the  broken  mould 

Peered  forth  their  tasseled  corn. 
While  from  one  rose-encircled  bower, 

Hid  in  the  nested  gi'ove. 
Came,  blending  with  the  robin's  lay, 

The  lullaby  of  love. 

There  sang  a  mother  to  her  babe — 

A  mother  young  and  fair — 
"JSTo  flower  like  thee  adorns  the  vale, 

O  sweet  Virginia  Dare ! 
Thou  art  the  lily  of  our  love. 

The  forest's  sylph-like  queen. 
The  first-born  bud  from  Saxon  stem 

That  this  I^ew  "World  hath  seen ! 

"Thy  father's  axe  in  thicket  rings, 

To  fell  the  kingly  tree ; 
Thy  grandsire  sails  o'er  ocean-brine — 

A  gallant  man  is  he  ! 
And  when  once  more,  from  England's  realm, 

He  comes  with  bounty  rare, 
A  thousand  gifts  to  thee  he'll  bring, 

Mine  own  Virginia  Dare !" 


88  VIRGINIA    DARE. 

As  sweet  that  mother's  loving  tones 

Thcu-  warbled  music  shed, 
As  though  in  proud  baronial  hall, 

O'er  silken  cradle-bed, 
ISTo  more  the  pomj^s  and  gauds  of  life 

Maintained  their  strong  control, 
For  holy  love's  new  gift  had  shed 

Fresh  greenness  o'er  her  soul. 

•  And  when  the  husband  from  his  toil 

Returned  at  closing  day. 
How  dear  to  him  the  lowly  home 

Where  all  his  treasures  lay. 
"  O,  Ellinor !  'tis  naught  to  me, 

The  hardship  or  the  storm, 
While  thus  thy  blessed  smile  I  see, 

And  clasp  our  infant's  form." 

No  secret  sigh  o'er  pleasures  lost 

Convulsed  their  tranquil  breast. 
For  where  the  pure  affections  dwell 

The  heart  hath  perfect  rest. 
So  fled  the  Summer's  balmy  prime, 

The  Autumn's  golden  wing, 
And  Winter  laid  his  hoary  head 

Upon  the  lap  of  Spring. 


VIRGINIA   DARE.  89 

Yet  oft,  with  wily,  wary  step, 

The  red-browed  Indian  crept 
Close  round  his  pale-faced  neighbour's  home, 

And  listened  while  they  slept ; 
But  fierce  "Wingina,  lofty  chief. 

Aloof,  their  movements  eyed, 
Nor  courteous  bowed  his  plumed  head, 

Kor  checked  his  haughty  stride. 

John  White  leaped  from  his  vessel's  prow. 

He  had  braved  the  boisterous  sea. 
And  boldly  rode  the  mountain-wave — 

A  stalwart  man  was  he. 
John  White  leaped  from  his  vessel's  prow, 

And  joy  was  in  his  eye  ; 
For  his  daughter's  smile  had  lured  him  on 

Amid  the  stormiest  sky. 

WTiere  were  the  roofs  that  flecked  the  green  ? 

The  smoke-wreaths  curling  high  ? 
He  calls — he  shouts — the  cherished  names, 

But  Echo  makes  reply. 
"Where  art  thou,  Ellinor !  my  child  ! 

And  sweet  Virginia  Dare  ! 
0,  silver  cloud,  that  cleaves  the  blue 

Like  angel's  wing — say  where! 


90  VIRGINIA   DARE. 


"AYliere  is  tlie  glorious  Saxon  vine 

We  set  so  strong  and  fair?" 
The  stern  gray  rocks  in  mockery  smiled, 

And  coldly  answered,  ^' where!'' 
"Ho  !  flitting  savage !  stay  tliy  step. 

And  tell — "  but  light  as  air 
He  vanished,  and  the  falling  stream 

Responsive  murmured — "  ivliere  /" 

So,  o'er  the  ruined  palisade. 

The  blackened  threshold-stone. 
The  funeral  of  colonial  hope, 

That  old  man  wept — alone ! 
And  mournful  rose  his  wild  lament, 

In  accents  of  despair, 
For  the  lost  daughter  of  his  love. 

And  young  Virginia  Dare. 


MICAH   AND   THE   LEYITE. 

Judges,  17th  and  18th  Chapters. 

"Mother!  the  lioarded  silver,  at  whose  loss 
Thou  cursedest  bitterly,  behold !  'tis  here ! — 
I  took  it" 

Thus  unhumbled  Micah  spake — 
Nor  she  reproved,  but  blessed  him,  and  well  pleased 
With  her  recovered  pelf,  exulting  cried, 
"  The  treasure  all  was  dedicate,  my  son, 
Unto  a  sacred  purpose.     I  had  vowed 
To  make  a  graven  and  a  molten  god. 
That  we  might  have  our  household  deities 
Always  beside  us." 

So,  she  counted  out 
The  shekels  in  his  hand,  and  he,  unmoved 
At  her  idolatry,  with  impious  zeal 
An  epliod  and  a  teraphim  prepared. 
And  then,  a  wandering  Levite — strange  to  say — 
For  hireling  gain,  consented  to  conduct 
The  mingled  ntes,  to  image,  and  to  God, 
Idolatrous  and  vain.     For  in  those  days 


92  MIOAII    AND   THE    LEVITE. 

There  was  no  king  in  Israel.     Every  man 
Lived  as  he  listed,  doing  what  was  right 
In  his  own  eyes. 

Forth  from  the  tribe  of  Dan, 
A  lawless  multitude,  intent  on  spoil, 
Marauding  o'er  the  country,  in  a  glen 
Of  cedar-wrapped  Mount  Ephraim,  found  the  abode 
Of  Micah,  and  upon  his  cherished  gods 
Laid  sacrilegious  hands. 

"What  dost  thou  here, 
Thou  son  of  Levi?"  arrogantly  asked 
The  renegado  leader. 

"Here  I  dwell. 
Even  as  a  priest,  and  father  to  mine  host — 
Cared  for,  and  paid  by  him,  and  ^^^ell  content 
To  worship  at  his  altar." 

"Hold  thy  peace — 
Lay  hand  upon  thy  mouth,  and  come  with  us — 
For  whether  it  is  better  thus  to  serve 
A  solitary  house,  or  be  the  priest 
O'er  a  whole  tribe  of  Israel,  thou  canst  judge 
As  well  as  we." 

With  dull  and  earth-bowed  eye 
The  plodding  man  considered.     On  one  side 
Were  his  ten  yearly  shekels,  robes,  and  bread 
At  Micah's  table.     On  the  other  seemed 


MICAII   AND    THE    LEVITE.  93 

J^aught  save  a  roaming  life,  'mid  warrior  horde — 

Perhaps  no  sacrificial  lamb — not  even 

A  mess  of  pottage,  rich  with  lentiles  brown, 

Savory  and  well  beloved.     His  stupid  brow 

Long  m-ought  with  struggles  of  unwonted  thought, 

And  longer  still  had  wrought,  by  doubt  perplexed, 

Had  not  ambition,  which  may  find  a  place 

Even  with  ignoble  natures,  thrown  its  bait, 

Secret  and  sure — the  i^riestliood  of  a  tribe — 

And  tithe  of  victor-spoih. 

Quick,  upward  flew 
In  lightened  scale,  the  fii^eside  and  the  board. 
All  grateful  memories — all  uttered  vows. 
That  bound  him  to  his  patrons  and  their  shrine. 
So  with  the  stolen  goods  he  went  his  way, 
Unquestioned  still  by  conscience,  if,  indeed, 
Such  monitor  he  had.     In  swift  pursuit. 
With  gathered  neighbors,  sudden  roused  to  arms, 
Indignant  Micah  came.     To  his  sharp  words. 
Upbraiding  bitterly,  the  Danite  chief 
Laconic  spake,  as  sworded  men  are  wont, 
"Who  have  the  power  : 

''Let  not  thy  voice  be  heard 
Among  us  here,  lest  angiy  fellows  rush 
On  thee,  and  on  thy  kindred,  and  the  end 
Be  worse  than  the  beginning." 


94  MICAH    AND    THE   LEVITE. 

With  a  curse 
Of  vengeful  hatred  on  the  recreant  priest, 
Who,  shrinking  in  the  centre  of  the  host, 
Scarce  raised  a  cowering  glance,  chafed  Micah  turned 
Back  to  his  mother,  the  contempt  and  loss 
Bearing,  as  best  he  might. 

Such  were  the  times 
In  Israel,  when  each  man  did  what  seemed  right 
In  his  own  eyes.     HI  fares  it  with  a  land 
Where  lust  of  gold,  and  wajsvard  passions  fill 
The  place  of  righteous  law. 

May  om-  own  realm, 
By  Heaven's  blest  page  instructed,  give  its  aid 
To  order,  and  authority,  and  peace, 
And  heartfelt  worship  of  the  God  from  whom 
All  blessings  flow. 


NATURE'S   TRUE   FRIENDS. 

The  insect  tribes  go  wandering  by, 
Each  for  Mmself,  the  bee's  keen  eye 
Scans  where  the  honied  nectaries  he  ; 
The  butterfly  coquetteth  free 
With  zephyr,  sunbeam,  shrub  and  tree. 
The  banker  Ant,  his  gains  doth  hoard. 
With  forethought,  for  his  winter  board. 
The  plodding  beetle  onward  wends. 
The  locust  hath  his  private  ends. 
And  rears  the  warlike  wasp  with  care 
His  architecture  rude  and  rare. 

So,  with  the  birds,  careering  high. 
Some  straw  to  build  their  nest  they  spy. 
Nor  spare  to  steal  the  tissues  fine 
With  tapestry  its  couch  to  line. 
Then  close  in  secret  nook  they  bide. 
Their  dearest  joys  from  us  to  hide, 


96  nature's  true  friends. 

Or  soariug,  taunt  oui'  earth-born  care 
With  happiness  we  may  not  share, 
Save  that  we  gather  from  the  air 
Snatches  of  melody,  that  tell 
Of  higher  climes,  where  angels  dwell, 
Or  echoes  of  their  heaven-taught  lay 
To  warn  us  of  a  brighter  day. 

But  ye,  meek  flowers,  with  love  so  true, 
Unselfish,  constant,  ever  new, 
For  us  alone,  from  prisoning  dust, 
To  beauty  and  to  bloom  ye  burst, 
To  us  ye  give,  on  hill  and  i^lain 
Your  all,  requiring  nought  again; 
With  lavish  trust,  your  noblest  powers. 
Blush,  odour,  solace,  life,  are  ours, 
Reserving  nought,  save  one  sweet  sigh 
That  breathes  at  last,  that  lesson  high 
How  innocence  and  peace  can  die. 


QUEEN   PHILIPPA. 

Edward  was  fired  with.  rage. — 

"Bring  forth,"  he  said, 
"  The  hostages,  and  let  their  death  instruct 
This  contumacious  city." 

Forth  they  came — 
The  rope  about  their  necks — those  patriot  men, 
Who  nobly  chose  an  ignominious  doom 
To  save  their  country's  blood.     Famine  and  toil, 
And  the  long  siege,  had  worn  them  to  the  bone. 
Yet  from  their  eye  spoke  that  heroic  soul 
Wliich  scorns  the  body's  ill.     Father  and  son 
Stood  side  by  side,  and  youthful  forms  were  there, 
By  kindred  linked — for  whom  the  sky  of  life 
Was  bright  with  love — yet  no  repining  sigh 
Darkened  their  hour  of  fate.     Well  had  they  taxed 
The  midnight  thougbt,  and  nerved  the  wearied  arm, 
While  months  and  seasons  thinn'd  their  wasted  ranks. 


08  QUEEN    PIIILIPPA. 

The  harvest  failed— the  joy  of  vintage  ceased, 
Vine-dresser  and  grape-treader  manned  the  walls ; 
And  when  they  sank  with  hunger,  others  came, 
Of  cheek  more  pale,  perchance,  but  strong  at  heart. 
Yet  still  those  spectres  poured  their  arrow-flight. 
Or  hurled  the  deadly  stone,  while  at  the  gates. 
The  Conqueror  of  Cressy  sued  in  vain. 
"Lead  them  to  die!"  he  bade. 

In  noble  hearts 
There  was  a  throb  of  pity  for  the  foe 
So  fallen,  and  so  unblenching  ;  yet  none  dared 
Meet  that  fierce  temper  with  the  word,  forgive  ! 

Wlio  comes  with  hasty  step,  and  flowing  robe. 

And  hair  so  slightly  bound?     The  Queen!  The  Queen! 

An  earnest  pity  on  her  lifted  brow. 

Tears  in  her  azure  eye  like  drops  of  light. 

What  seeks  she,  with  such  fervid  eloquence  ? — 

Life  for  the  lost !  and  ever  as  she  fears 

Her  suit  in  vain,  more  wildly  heaves  her  breast. 

In  secrecy  of  prayer,  to  save  her  lord 

From  cruelty  so  dire,  and  from  the  pangs 

Of  late  remorse.     At  first,  the  strong  resolve 

Curled  on  his  lip,  and  raised  his  haughty  head, 

While  every  firm-set  muscle,  prouder  swelled 

To  iron  rigour.     Then,  his  flashing  eye 


QUEEN    PIIILIPPA.  99 

JRested  upon  her,  till  its  softened  glance 
Confessed  conta^on  from  her  tenderness, 
As  with  a  manly  and  chivalrous  grace 
The  boon  he  gave. — 

Oh,  Woman ! — ever  seek 
A  victory  like  this ;  with  heavenly  warmth 
Still  melt  the  icy  purpose,  and  preserve 
From  error's  path  the  heart  that  thou  dost  fold 
Close  in  thine  own  pure  love.     Yes,  ever  be 
The  advocate  of  sorrow,  and  the  friend 
Of  those  whom  all  forsake :  so  may  thy  prayer 
In  thine  adversity,  be  heard  of  Him 
Who  loveth  to  show  mercy. 


THE   DESTROYER. 

There  is  a  ceaseless  skaft  tliat  speeds 

Unerring  tlirougli  the  air, 
A  sleepless  archer  all  unseen, 

Yet  active  everywhere. 

Close  on  me  steps  of  busy  life 

He  like  a  shadow  glides, 
Mysterious  checks  the  bosom's  strife, 

And  chills  its  purple  tides. 

The  strongly  armed  and  watchful  guard, 

Who  keep  the  palace  gate. 
Saw  not  the  entering  foe  that  smote 

Their  monarch  in  his  state. 

The  lonely  cot's  unlifted  latch 

^NTo  roaming  robber  fears. 
Yet  there  he  lurks, — beneath  the  tliatch,- 

Ye  know  it — by  the  tears. 

100 


THE    DESTROYED.  ;       ^  T  ';  ' ;  '>  '^  JX)1 

And  though  he  loves  a  lofty  mark, 

The  great,  the  good,  the  fair, 
Still,  mid  the  humhlest  things  that  breathe, 

Look ! — for  you'll  find  him  there. 

The  deer,  that  feels  the  hunter's  sting, 

And  struggles  on  the  plain, — 
The  bird,  that  fain  with  broken  wing 

Would  reach  its  nest  again, — 

The  moth,  that  flutters  round  the  flower, — 

The  worm,  ^vithin  that  coils, — 
He  scorneth  not  his  bow  to  bend, 

And  glean  these  lowly  spoils. 

The  mountain  strives  beneath  the  cloud 

Its  hoary  head  to  hide. 
The  combing  billows  fain  would  shroud 

The  sea's  unfathomed  pride, — 

It  may  not  be, — the  hardiest  pin 

That  clothes  the  Alpine  steep. 
The  mightiest  monsters  of  the  brine 

That  lash  the  foaming  deep. 


102  TilE    DESTROYER. 

Confess  his  power, — tlie  wounded  whale 
"With  crimson  stains  the  tide, 

The  radiant  dolpliin  waxeth  pale, 
As  though  a  rainhow  died, — 

The  sea-horse  on  the  whelming  surge 
Floats  by,  without  a  moan, 

The  coral  insect  builds  its  tomb. 
And  hardens  into  stone. 

He  scans  the  forest,  dark  with  years, 
The  palm,  the  banyan's  shade, 

The  iron  oak  which  centuries  spared. 
And  at  his  frown  they  fade. 

Yet  sometimes  in  his  withering  path 
A  lowly  plant  doth  spring. 

From  seed  of  immortality 
That  mocks  his  victor-sting. 

In  earth,  in  air,  in  ocean  caves, 

All  deprecate  his  ^vrath. 
He  crusheth  thrones,  yet  fears  to  mow 

That  balm-flower  in  his  path. 


THE    DESTROYER.  103 

The  balm-flower  that  behind  him  grows, 

Wet  with  the  mourner's  tear, 
That  springs  to  staunch  the  bleeding  heart, 

A  Saviour  standing  near. 

Strong  faith,  deep  love,  unfading  trust. 

That  deck  the  Christian's  tomb. 
Heaven's  guerdon  to  the  born  of  dust, — 

He  dares  not  blight  their  bloom. 


A  TALK  WITH  THE   BKOOKS. 


The  voice  of  brooks  spake  to  me,  as  I  walked 
At  winter  noon-day.     Up,  tlirough  icy  veils, 
Cold  and  transparent,  glanced  their  sparkling  eyes, 
"WTiile  ever  and  anon,  as  some  brief  plunge 
Gave  them  advantage  o'er  the  softening  banks. 
They  brake  their  fetters. 

"  Why  have  ye  come  forth 
Thus,  ere  your  time,  to  touch  with  trembling  green 
The  taper  grass-blades,  and  the  tiny  plants 
That  on  your  margin  grow?" 

"  They  slept  so  long," 
The  brooklets  said,  "we  feared  they  would  forget 
The  mighty  Quickener's  name,  who  ever  decks 
This  earth  with  beauty.     So  we  gently  waked 
Theu^  cradle-dream,  bidding  them  learn  of  us 
The  Maker's  praise,  which,  murmuring,  we  repeat." 


A  TALK  WITH  THE  BROOKS.  105 

"Make  haste  on  your  sweet  errand,  tuneful  brooks  ! 
Tint  these  young  lips  with  life  w^hile  yet  ye  may, 
For,  lo !  stern  Winter  weaves  a  stronger  chain 
To  bind  ye,  hand  and  foot.     Methinks,  I  hear 
Even  now,  his  purpose,  on  the  rising  blast." 

"Then,"  they  replied,  "our  lesson  is  for  man: 
When  God  shall  shut  the  storm-cloud  o'er  his  joys, 
And  quell  his  song,  let  him  bear  on  like  us, 
In  meekness,  and  in  hope." 


AN  OLD   STORY. 


Says  Tom  to  Jem,  as  forth  they  went 

To  walk  one  evening  fine, 
"  I  wish  the  sky  a  great  green  field, 

And  all  that  pasture  mine." 

"And  I,"  says  Jem,  "wish  yonder  stars, 

That  there  so  idly  shine. 
Were  every  one  a  good  fat  ox, 

And  all  those  oxen  mine." 

"  Wliere  would  your  herd  of  cattle  graze  ?" 

"  Wliy,  in  your  pasture  fair." 
"  They  should  not,  that's  a  fact,"  said  Tom  ; 

"They  shall  not,  I  declare!" 

With  that  they  frowned,  and  struck,  and  fought, 

And  fiercely  stood  at  hay, 
And  for  a  foolish  fancy  cast 

Their  old  regard  away. 

106 


AN    OLD    STORY.  107 


And  many  a  war,  on  broader  scale, 
Hath  stained  the  earth  with  gore, 

For  castles  in  the  air,  that  fell 
Before  the  strife  was  o'er. 


THE   LANDING   OF  THE   PILGRIMS. 

A    PICTURE   BY   GEORGE   FLAGG. 

At  prayer ! — at  prayer,  upon  the  snow-clad  rock, 
The  cold,  bleak  slvy  above  them. 

Holy  man, — 
Heart  on  thy  lips,  and  Bible  in  thy  hand, 
Pour  foi-th,  as  far  as  feeble  speech  may  do, 
The  intense  emotion  of  the  gathered  throng. 

Eest  on  thy  sword,  thou  man  of  blood,*  and  muse, 
Thy  fading  Rose  beside  thee.     Bow  and  ask 
Strength  for  new  warfare,  when  the  savage  foe 
Shall  plant  his  ambush,  and  the  secret  shaft 
Ring  through  the  forest,  while  the  war-whoop  wakes 
The  frighted  infant,  on  its  mother's  breast. 

Prithee,  John  Alden,  say  thy  prayers  with  zeal, 
Forgetful  of  thy  comeliness,  and  her 
Who  Cupid's  subtle  snare  shall  weave  for  thee, 
When,  here  and  there,  the  settler's  roofs  shall  mix 
With  the  fresh  verdure  of  this  stranger  soil. 


*  Miles  Standish. 

108 


THE   LANDING    OF   THE    PILGRIMS.  100 

Oh,  noble  Carver  !  boundless  is  thy  wealth, 
In  the  pure  heart  that  thus  cloth  cling  to  thine, 
With  all  the  trustfulness  of  woman's  love. 
And  all  its  firm  endurance.     He  who  boasts 
Such  comforter  shall  find  the  barren  heath 
Thick  sown  with  flowers  of  Eden. 

Pale,  and  sweet, 
Ah !  suffering  bride  of  Winslow,  'tis  in  vain 
That  thus  he  fondly  clasps  thy  fragile  hand  : 
He  may  not  guard  thee  from  the  ghastly  foe 
That  on  thy  forehead  stamps  the  seal  of  doom. 
He  cannot  keep  thee,  lady.     Snows  may  chill 
Thy  foot,  that  England's  richest  carpets  prest, 
A  little  while,  and  then  the  soul  that  sits 
Bright  on  thine  upraised  eye,  shall  heavenward  soar. 

Oh  lone  and  tiny  May-Flower !  ark  that  touched 

Our  Ararat,  without  a  herald-dove 

Or  greeting  leaf  of  olive,— speed  thy  course 

Homeward  in  hope.     For  henceforth  shalt  thou  be 

Eemembered  through  all  time.     Thou,  who  hast  been 

Seed-bearer  for  a  nation,  shalt  be  held 

Right  blessed  for  thy  deed,  and  on  the  lip 

Of  each  succeeding  race,  shalt  freshly  dwell 

"With  holy  memories  of  those  pilgrim  sires 

Who  taught  ISTew  England's  wilds  Jehovah's  name. 

10 


THE  PKAYER  ON  BUNKER  HILL. 


During  the  battle  of  Bunker  Ilill,  a  venerable  clergyman  knelt  on  the  field,  with  hands 
upraised,  and  gray  head  uncorered,  and  while  the  bullets  whistled  around  him,  prayed  for 
the  success  of  his  compatriots,  and  the  deliverance  of  his  country. 


It  was  an  hour  of  fear  and  dread — 

High  rose  the  battle-cry, 
And  round,  in  heavy  volumes,  spread 

The  war-cloud  to  the  sky ; 
'Twas  not,  as  when  in  rival  strength 

Contending  nations  meet. 
Or  love  of  conquest  madly  hurls 

A  monarch  from  his  seat. 

Yet  one  was  there  unused  to  tread 

The  path  of  mortal  strife, 
Who  but  the  Sa\dour's  flock  had  fed 

Beside  the  fount  of  life ; 
He  knelt  him  where  the  black  smoke  wreathed. 

His  head  was  bowed  and  bare, 
"While  for  an  infant  land  he  breathed 

The  agony  of  prayer. 


A   PRAYER    ON   BUNKER    JIILL.  Ill 

The  column,  reel  with  early  morn, 

May  tower  o'er  Bunker's  height, 
And  proudly  tell  a  race  unborn 

Their  patriot  fathers'  might ; 
But  thou,  O  patriarch  old  and  gray ! 
•  The  prophet  of  the  free. 
Who  knelt  among  the  dead  that  day — 

What  fame  shall  rise  to  thee  ? 

It  is  not  meet  that  brass  or  stone, 

Which  feel  the  touch  of  time. 
Should  keep  the  record  of  a  faith 

That  makes  thy  deed  sublime ; 
We  trace  it  on  a  tablet  fair, 

Which  glows  when  stars  wax  pale — 
A  promise  that  the  good  man's  prayer 

Shall  with  his  God  prevail. 


POWERS'S  STATUE  OF  THE  GEEEK  SLAVE. 


Be  silent !  breatlie  not !  lest  ye  break  the  trance ; 
She  thinketh  of  hei-  Attic  home ;  the  leaves 
Of  its  green  olives  stir  within  her  soul, 
And  Love  is  sweeping  o'er  its  deexDest  chords 
So  mournfully.     All !  who  can  weigh  the  wo 
Or  wealth  of  memory  in  that  breast  sublime ! 

Yet  errs  he  not  who  calleth  thee  a  slave, 
Thou  Christian  maiden  ? 

Gyves  are  on  thy  ^vi-ists; 
But  in  thy  soul  a  might  of  sanctity 
That  foils  the  oppressor,  making  to  itself 
A  hiding-place  from  the  sore  ills  of  time. 
"What  is  the  chain  to  thee,  who  hast  the  power 
To  bind  in  admiration  all  who  gaze 
Upon  thine  eloquent  brow  and  matchless  form? 
We  are  ourselves  thy  slaves,  most  Beautiful ! 

112 


APRIL. 

Month  of  the  smile  and  tear !     Thou  dost  inherit 

A  losing  gift  from  thy  precursor's  hand, 
An  unquenched  feud,  sustained  with  lion  spirit 

Against  stern  Winter,  and  his  ruffian  band ; 

The  stormy  March,  whose  quarrels  shook  the  land. 
Left  but  sad  legacy  to  thee,  I  ween. 

Who,  like  a  girl,  all  moved  to  laughter  bland, 
Must  gird  thy  tender  limbs  in  armour  sheen. 
And  battle  for  thy  rights  upon  the  changefal  green. 

And  hark !  the  northern  winds,  thine  angry  foes 
Sweep  from  their  mountain-towers,  like  barons  bold, 

While,  in  their  secret  nooks,  the  cunning  snows 
Intrench  themselves,  resolved  with  durance  cold 
Possession  for  their  exiled  king  to  hold ; 

But  the  slant  sunbeams  waste  them  day  by  day. 
And  through  their  breasts,  with  arrogance  untold 

The  wily  brooklets  mine  their  murmuring  way. 

And  'neath  the  fretted  arcli,  a  thousand  gambols  play. 

10*  113 


114  APRIL. 

Yet  doth  thy  soft  hand  claim  the  victory, 

Month  of  the  smile  and  tear !  for  here  and  there, 
The  infant  grass-blades  peering  toward  the  sky 
Win  that  green  tint  which  maketh  earth  so  fair. 
And  many  a  bulb,  that  l)y  the  florist's  care 
Found  pillow  warm  beneath  the  sheltering  ground. 
And  many  a  hardy  bud,  the  blasts  that  dare. 
Have  heard  God's  voice  amid  the  garden's  bound. 
And  from  their  cradles  looked  and  listened  to  the  sound. 

They  listen,  they  unfold,  to  life  they  spring, 

The  pallid  snow-drop  at  the  violet's  feet, — 
The  young  arbutus,  with  its  glossy  wing 

Shadowing  its  forehead, — on  her  queenly  seat. 

The  hyacinth,  dispensing  perfume  sweet, 
The  fairy  crocus,  all  in  haste  arrayed. 

The  simple  daisy,  with  the  cowslip  sweet. 
Have  heard  God's  voice  amid  the  garden  glade. 
Yet  not,  like  Eden's  pair,  with  conscious  guilt  afraid. 

Month  of  the  smile  and  tear!     Thy  mild  behest 
A  countless  band  of  choristers  await : 

The  soaring  lark  unloads  his  warbling  breast. 
The  thrush  melodious  woos  his  gentle  mate. 
The  chirping  robin  at  the  cottage-gate 

Partakes  his  crumbs,  and  with  a  song  repays; 


APRIL.  115 

Up  goes  the  oriole,  bright  in  kingly  state : 
God's  voice  they  hear,  with  true  responsive  lays, 
'Nov  like  our  ingrate  hearts,  forego  the  debt  of  praise. 

Nature,  all  beauteous  in  the  garb  of  Spring, 
Thou,  as  a  goddess  to  her  temple-shrine, 

With  budding  wreaths  and  chant  of  birds  dost  bring ; 
And  there,  with  breathing  eloquence  divine. 
Whether  in  hymns,  where  woods  and  w^aters  join, 

Or  solemn  sounds,  when  sky-crowned  forests  nod 
Or  spirit-voices,  low  at  eve's  decline, 

Wlien  the  lone  lily  trembleth  on  the  sod, 

She  doth  announce  herself  a  Teacher  sent  from  God. 

The  world  hath  other  lessons,  other  charms, 

To  stir  the  selfish  passions.     Lust  of  fame 
Goads  the  stern  warrior  on  to  deeds  of  arms ; 

Wealth  o'er  the  crowd  maintains  a  golden  claim; 

The  mournful  odour  of  a  mangled  nam^ 
Lures  Slander's  harpies,  posting  on  the  wind  : 

Even  cloistered  Learning  feeds  Contention's  flame ; 
But  Nature — holy  nurse  of  human  kind — 
Back  to  its  Glorious  Sire  doth  lead  the  ethereal  mind. 


DIVINE  WISDOM. 

Temporal  afflictions  sometimes  hide  those  eternal  blessings  to  which  they  lead ;  as  temporal 

enjoyments  cover  those  eternal  evils  which  they  too  often  procure." 

Pascal. 

God's  will,  God's  will,  my  soul !  and  not  tliine  own, 
[N'o,  not  thine  own ! 

Thou  hadst  an  earnest  choice 
To  look  on  pleasant  things  beneath  the  sun. 
Sweet  flowers  and  fruitful  vines ;  but  most  of  all 
To  taste  that  love  which  bindeth  heart  to  heart. 
In  close  communion. 

But  thy  choice  was  made 
In  darkness,  and  thou  know'st  not  what  was  best: 
He  knoweth, — the  Eternal ! 

They  who  hoard 
Metallic  heaps,  say,  what  will  that  avail 
When  from  their  death-struck  hands  the  gold  shall  fall, 
O'er  selfish,  thankless,  or  estranged  hearts. 
While  they,  amid  the  tossings  of  disease. 
Part  to  return  no  more  ? 


DIVINE   WISDOM.  117 

And  they  who  make 
Ambition  master,  and  his  bidding  do, 
Upon  the  war-cloud,  trampling  fiercely  down 
All  loves,  all  charities,  all  bonds  of  right, 
And  bringing  plagues  upon  the  souls  of  men. 
That  they  may  swell  in  greatness, — is  their  gain 
A  blessing,  or  a  pang,  when  they  shall  tread 
That  lone  St.  Helena,  which  conscience  makes. 
And  wrestle  with  the  death-pang,  unsustained" 
By  breath  of  treacherous  fame  ? 

Even  they,  who  reap 
The  fulness  of  their  hope  in  earthly  love. 
Finding  each  sorrow  lulled  by  sympathy, 
Each  joy  reflected  from  the  mirror-plate 
Of  a  quick,  answering  heart,  do  they  repose 
Too  fondly  on  their  idols  ? — Do  they  claim 
Firm  property  in  that  which  is  but  dust, 
And  so  complain,  when  on  the  winged  winds, 
Uplifted  lightly,  it  doth  fleet  away  ? 
Doth  Heaven's  rich  bounty  make  the  erring  heart 
Shrink  from  the  travel  of  eternity  ? 
It  may  be  so — and  therefore  He  who  knows 
Our  frame  hath  gathered  round  this  banquet-board 
The  hyssop  branch  and  taste  of  bitter  herbs. 
And  where  we  grasp  a  rose-wreath,  as  we  think, — 
Gives  us  a  thorn  to  kiss. 


118 


DIVINE   WISDOM. 


Yea,  and  He  sends 
Deep  voices  to  us,  from  the  Spirit-Land, 
Breathed  from  the  lips  that  once  on  earth  were  dear, 
And  tenderly  they  teach  us  how  to  strike 
The  key-note  of  that  never  ending  song, 
Which  through  the  arch  of  heaven's  high  temple  swells, 
"  God's  will,  not  ours !— God's  praise  forever  more !" 


THE   LAST  JOUKNEY   OF   HENEY   CLAY. 


He  passeth  on  his  way, 

The  man  to  senates  dear, 
The  silver-voiced,  whom  gathered  throngs 

Still  held  their  breath  to  hear. 
He  hath  no  warrior's  crown, 

No  laurel  on  his  breast, 
But  Peace  her  drooping  olive  binds 

Amid  his  stainless  crest. 

He  shrank  not  at  his  post 

Till  the  spoiler  grasped  his  hand. 
And  sternly  chained  the  silver  tongue 

Whose  music  charmed  the  land. 
Mid  Summer's  glorious  pride 

With  the  tramp  of  an  iron  steed, 
He  sweepeth  on,  o'er  the  realm  he  loved — 

But  his  closed  eye  takes  no  heed. 

119 


120  THE   LAST   JOURNEY   OF   HENRY   CLAY. 

Our  cities  veiled  theii'  heads 

As  through  their  gates  he  passed, 
And  the  mournful  voice  of  tolling  bells 

Wailed  out  upon  the  blast : 
And  forth  our  noblest  came 

To  guard  their  sacred  trust, 
And  weeping  woman  cast  her  wreath 

Upon  his  honoured  dust. 

He  passeth  on  his  way 
In  more  than  kingly  state, 

And  silent  children  press  to  gaze 
Upon  the  fallen  great ; 

While  from  the  ramparts  proud, 
Where  his  country's  banners  fly. 

The  booming  cannon  speaks  his  praise- 
But  he  deigneth  no  reply. 

There's  sorrow  on  the  wave 

As  the  cofl3.ned  dead  they  bring — 
The  passing  ships  their  pennons  furl, 

Like  an  eagle's  broken  wing; 
And  as  the  rippling  streams 

That  precious  burden  bore, 
The  murmuring  rivers  tell  their  grief 

To  eveiy  shrouded  shore. 


THE    LAST   JOURNr.Y    OF    HENRY    CLAY.  121 

He  passe  til  on  his  way, 

To  liis  own  cultured  lawn — 
The  shadow  of  his  planted  trees 

That  bloom  when  he  is  gone  : 
And  agonizing  love 

Beholds  with  stifled  moan, 
A  nation's  tear  upon  the  bier, 

That  mingles  with  her  own. 

Bow  down  in  reverent  wo 

Beside  his  sable  pall, 
The  friend  of  man,  who  fearless  sought 

The  brotherhood  of  all ! 
Strong  in  a  Saviour's  strength 

When  life's  frail  web  was  riven, 

The  Truth  and  Peace  he  loved  on  earth 

Made  him  at  home  in  Heaven. 
11 


FRIENDSHIP  WITH   NATURE. 

Benighted  wanderer  o'er  tlie  lonely  wild, 
For  wliom  no  lieartli-stone  blazes,  no  fond  eye 
Watches  tlirougli  gathering  mist — no  voice  of  love 
Prepares  the  welcome  greeting — droop  not  thus, 
Disquieted  and  desolate.     Look  up  ! 
Orion  holds  his  golden  lamp  for  thee  ; 
And  see,  from  highest  heaven,  the  kingly  orb 
Of  Sirius  doth  thee  honour  with  its  beam. 
Yea,  even  the  fair-robed  queenly  moon  doth  bow 
Upon  her  silver  throne,  to  guide  thy  feet 
Mid  thorns  and  pitfalls. 

Dost  thou  mourn  to  feel 
Forgotten  here,  upon  this  little  point 
Of  one  small  planet?     Lo  !  majestic  worlds, 
That  turning  on  their  glowing  axles,  hide 
The  mysteries  of  their  myriad  habitants, 
Smile  on  thee,  full  of  friendly  offices. 
Making  night's  vault  for  thee  most  beautiful 

122 


FRIENDSHIP   WITH    NATURE.  123 

With  their  bright  tokens.     And  the  glorious  sun, 
Chief  of  God's  creatures  in  our  universe, 
Shall  wake  to  give  thee  light,  as  cheerily 
As  to  the  proudest  king. 

So,  be  not  sad ! 
If  mortals  scorn  thee,  fly  to  ITature's  arms 
And  ever  open  breast.     For  he  who  lives 
Nearest  to  her,  is  never  far  from  God. 
Yes,  make  of  ITature  an  enduring  friend. 
That  when  grim  Age  shall  lay  his  hand  on  thee. 
Plucking  thee  bare  of  all  the  cherished  plumes 
Of  youth  and  fancy,  every  wild- winged  bird 
Cleaving  the  air,  or  brooding  o'er  its  nest 
With  soul-born  music,  every  bud  that  lifts 
Its  infant  chalice,  full  of  morning  dew. 
May  touch  the  fountains  of  remembered  joy. 
Making  thee  young  again. 

And  when  at  last 
The  dark  death-angel  cometh,  earth  shall  ope 
Her  mourning  matron  breast,  more  tenderly. 
More  full  of  grief,  than  when  the  haughty  chief. 
With  blood-stained  laurels  and  proud  funeral  train, 
Lies  down  to  be  forgotten. 

She  shall  make 
Thy  chamber  in  the  dust,  and  spread  thy  couch. 
And  bid  the  grass-flower  and  the  violet 


124  FRIENDSHIP    WITH    NATURE. 

Embroider  its  greeii  turf,  as  daintily 
As  though  the  clarion-cry  of  wealth  and  fame 
Had  proudly  heralded  thy  pilgrimage. 
Eegard  not  Time's  brief  tyranny,  oh,  man  ! 
Made  in  God's  image — but  uplift  thy  brow, 
And  by  the  glory  of  the  inward  light 
Which  falls  on  Nature's  dial  night  and  day, 
Mark  out  thy  journey  to  the  realm  of  love. 


"I   STILL   LIVE." 

THE   LAST   WORDS   OF   DANIEL   WEBSTER. 

"  Still  I  live  /"     The  leaves  were  falling 

Eound  tlie  mansion  wliere  lie  lay, 
And  autumnal  voices  calling, 

Warned  tlie  summer's  pride  away, 
While  the  sighing  surge  of  ocean, 

In  its  crested  beauty  ran. 
Breaking  with  a  ceaseless  motion, 

Like  the  fleeting  hopes  of  man. 

"  Still  I  live  /"     Oh,  strong  and  glorious 
Were  those  prophet  words  of  cheer ; 

For  where'er  in  truth  victorious, - 
Greatness  hath  its  worship  here. 

Patriot  power  its  high  ovation. 
Eloquence  its  lofty  birth. 

He  shall  win  from  every  nation, 

An  nndving  name  on  earth. 

n*  125 


126  "l    STILL    LIVE." 

"  Still  I  live  r     Tlie  flesh  was  failing, 

All  in  vain  the  healer's  skill, 
Light  in  that  deep  eye  was  paling, 

And  the  mighty  heart  grew  still : — 
Yet  the  soul,  its  God  adoring. 

Clad  in  armour  firm  and  bright, 
O'er  the  body's  ruin  soaring. 

Mingled  with  the  Infinite. 

"WHiere  he  sleeps,  that  man  of  glory, 

Marshfield's  mournful  shades  can  say, 
And  his  weeping  country's  story 

Darkened  on  that  funeral  day ; 
But  the  love  that  deepest  listened, 

Caught  such  balm  as  Heaven  can  give, 
For  an  angel's  pinion  glistened 

At  the  echo-—"  Still  I  live  /" 


GOD   SAVE  THE  PLOUGH 

See, — how  the  shining  share 
Maketh  earth's  bosom  fair, 

Crowning  her  brow, — 
Bread  in  its  furrow  springs, 
Health  and  repose  it  brings. 
Treasures  unknown  to  kings, 

God  save  the  plough ! 

Look  to  the  warrior's  blade. 
While  o'er  the  tented  glade, 

Hate  breathes  his  vow, — 
Strife  its  unsheathing  wakes, 
Love  at  its  lightning  quakes, 
Weeping  and  wo  it  makes, 

God  save  the  plough ! 

Ships  o'er  the  deep  may  ride. 
Storms  wreck  their  banner' d  pride. 
Waves  whelm  their  prow, 


127 


128  GOD    SAVE    THE    PLOUGH. 

But  tlic  well-loaded  wain 
Garnereth  tlie  golden  grain, 
Gladdening  the  household  train, 
God  save  the  plough  ! 

Who  are  the  truly  great  ? 
Minions  of  pomp  and  state, 

Where  the  crowd  bow  ? 
Give  us  hard  hands  and  free, 
Culturers  of  field  and  tree. 
Best  friends  of  liberty — 

God  save  the  plough  ! 


THE   TEACHER. 

To  teach  the  young,  and  walk  at  shining  morn, 
Mid  the  pure  air,  and  Nature's  harmonies 
Of  bird  or  stream,  unto  the  work  that  gives 
The  light  of  knowledge  to  the  grateful  mind, 
And,  at  the  close  of  day,  to  homeward  turn 
For  the  sweet  rest  that  diligence  deserves, 
And  self-approval  cheers,  is  less  a  toil 
Than  privilege. 

But  the  intenser  care 
That  hath  no  interval,  of  him  who  shares 
His  roof-tree  with  his  pupils,  and  beholds, 
Both  at  uprising  and  retiring  hours. 
At  board  and  fireside,  their  observant  glance 
Ever  upon  him,  needeth  full  supplies 
Of  grace  divine.     Yea,  almost  might  he  ask 
An  angel's  wisdom,  lest  infirmity 


130  THE   TEACnER. 

Or  inadvertence,  in  those  household  hours 

Wlien  men  unhend,  should  mar  authority. — 

Still,  if  in  tenderness  of  heart  he  strives 

To  view  them  as  his  children,  and  to  bear 

"With  martjT's  patience,  and  to  extii-j^iate 

As  conscience  prompts,  and  to  hope  on  when  hope 

Seems  dead,  yet  not  for  lucre's  sake  alone 

But  "ever  in  the  Great  Taskmaster's  eye," — 

Doubtless  he'll  reap  a  harvest,  either  here 

Or  in  the  better  land. 

Let  such  be  praised, 
And  held  in  honour.     For  they  do  the  work 
Deputed  to  the  parent,  unsutained 
By  that  rich  filial  love,  whose  sweetness  makes 
All  burdens  light.     And  I  have  seen  such  care 
Crowned  with  enduring  gratitude,  though  oft 
The  boy,  unskilled  to  read  the  motive  right 
That  curbs  a  wayward  impulse,  doth  mistake 
Justice  for  tyi-anny,  and  so  revolt, 
Darkening  the  promise  of  his  early  years. 

Yet  many  a  germ  of  tenderness  hath  birth 
From  this  familiar  intercourse,  that  bears 
In  young  and  generous  natures,  blessed  fruit 
Of  friendship  for  the  Teacher,  such  as  time 
And  hoary  hairs  impair  not. 


THE    TEACHER.  131 

Once  I  saw 
A  nursery  for  the  mind,  'mid  rural  shades 
Pleasantly  T\Tapped,  remote  from  tempting  snares, 
Or  interrupting  sounds  of  city  life. 
Within  its  walls  a  spacious  garden  spread, 
Where  each  a  little  space  might  call  his  own, 
And  stock  as  best  he  pleased,  with  fruit  or  flower, 
Berry  or  salad.     From  an  orchard  near 
The  ripening  apples  told  of  luscious  treat 
At  lengthened  eve,  which  all  should  freely  share. 

Forest  and  dale  around  gave  fitting  room 
For  summer  ramble,  and  the  icy  pool 
Responsive  rang  beneath  the  skater's  heel. 
These  were  for  hours  of  sport,  but  'neath  the  roof 
Study  and  discipline,  with  earnest  sway 
Enforced  their  claims. 

One  morn,  a  fair-haired  lad 
Brought  to  the  master's  desk  a  folded  note, 
Of  neat  chu'ography,  in  ardent  phrase 
Asking  a  holiday. 

The  wintry  storm 
Had  long  been  raging,  smiting,  night  and  day. 
The  moaning  evergreens ;  but  now  the  sun 
Cast  o'er  the  clear  cold  vault  of  sparkling  blue 
A  compensating  smile.     Thus  inly  cheered 
And  strengthened  by  the  coming  of  a  guest 


132  THE   TEACHER. 

Honoured  by  all,  who  to  the  master  paid 
Brief  visit,  they  adventured  their  request, 
TJnamimously  signed. 

The  teacher's  heart 
Yearned  to  indulge  them.     But  with  features  grave 
And  policy  of  pausing  speech,  he  asked 
Each  how  his  lessons  fared,  intent  to  make, 
If  possible,  the  favour  a  reward ; 
Or  else  demurring  conscience  satisfy 
With  promises  of  better  things  to  come, 
Which  many  a  young  and  fervent  lip  pronounced 
•  Bight  heartily.     So,  with  paternal  smile 
The  boon  he  granted. 

Wlio  the  joy  can  tell, 
Unless  the  boyish  nature  he  partake. 
That  with  electric  flash,  from  heart  to  heart 
Thrilled  at  that  lauded  word. 

With  buoyant  step 
The  glad  group  gathered.     Some  their  rout  disclosed 
To  a  bold  mount,  whose  palisaded  head 
Mixed  in  dim  distance  with  a  silvery  cloud, 
Intent  to  glean  its  ciystals,  and  enrich 
Their  cabinets  with  fossils. 

Some,  alas ! 
With  gun  or  belted  quiver,  told  too  plain 
Their  hostile  purpose  'gainst  the  sylvan  spoil. 


THE   TEACHER.  133 

To  them  the  observant  dog  delighted  hung, 
And  at  each  summons  frisked  with  wilder  zeal. 
Some  to  the  saddle  sprang,  while  others  sped 
The  rolling  wheel  to  reach  the  neighbouring  town, 
And  make  the  heart  of  friend  or  parent  leap 
At  their  bright,  brief  '^good-morrow," 

Here  and  there 
Amid  the  brisk  pedestrian  throng  were  seen 
The  osier  basket,  ominous  of  good, 
AYell  by  the  matron's  liberal  kindness  stored; 
While  ruddy  fruit,  from  pocket  peeping  forth, 
Bespoke  wise  forethought  for  the  coming  meal. 

Even  humbler  creatures  seemed  to  share  the  joy, 
And  quick  from  perch  to  perch  the  imprisoned  bird 
Flitted  with  outspread  mng,  while  shriller  tones 
Grave  vent  to  its  impassioned  melody. 


Then,  at  the  chosen  leader's  bugle  call. 
The  exploring  troop  set  forth,  as  full  of  glee 
As  sport,  and  the  elastic  play  of  limbs, 
And  the  free  spirit  of  the  woods  could  make 
The  healthful  heart.     Would  that  the  pensive  eye 
Of  many  a  distant  mother  now  might  glance 
Upon  her  graceful  and  glad-hearted  boy 

12 


134  THE    TEACHER. 

For  whom  so  oft  it  guslietli  in  tlie  prayer 
That  hath  no  words. 

Oh  teacher !  it  is  well 
To  mingle  sunbeams  with  the  seed  that  sows 
The  immoi-tal  mind.     Damp  sorrow's  moody  mist 
Doth  quell  the  aspiring  thought,  and  steal  away 
Childhood's  young  wealth  of  happiness,  that  God 
Gave  as  its  birthright.     Strive  to  blend  the  glow 
Of  gladness  with  thy  discipline,  and  urge 
Duty  by  love.     Eemember  how  the  blood 
Coursed  through  thine  own  quick  veins,  when  life  was 

new, 
I^or  make  the  isthmus  'tween  the  boy  and  man 
A  bridge  of  sighs. 


THE   PLANT   AT    SEA. 

Hold  up  thy  head,  thou  timid  voyager ! 

Vexed  by  the  storm-clouds  as  they  darkly  roll, 
And  by  those  fiercely  tossing  waves  that  stir 

Thy  slender  root,  and  try  thy  trembling  soul. 

Sad  change  from  that  sweet  garden,  where  the  dew 
Each  morning  glistened  in  thy  grateful  eye, 

And  where  the  roughest  guest  thy  bosom  knew 
Was  earnest  bee,  or  gadding  butterfly. 

It  grieves  me  sore  to  see  thy  leaflets  fade, 

Wearing  the  plague-spot  of  the  chilling  spray, 

And  know  what  trouble  I  for  thee  have  made : 
Yet  still  bear  on,  meek  partner  of  my  way. 

For  in  thy  tender  life  I  hold  the  chain 

Of  home  and  its  delights,  here  on  the  lonely  main. 

135 


MORNING,  IN   EURAL   AND  CITY  LIFE. 

<'  God  made  the  country,  and  man  made  the  town." — Cowper. 

Morn  breaketh  on  tlie  mountains.     Their  gray  peaks 
Catch  its  first  tint,  and  through  the  mist  that  veils 
Their  rugged  foreheads,  smile,  as  when  the  stars 
Together  sang,  at  young  Creation's  birth. 

^Fresh  gales  awake,  and  the  tall  pines  bow  down 

To  their  soft  visit,  and  the  umbrageous  oaks 
Spread  their  broad  banner,  while  each  leaf  doth  lift 
Itself,  as  for  a  blessing.     Through  the  boughs 
Of  the  cool  poplars,  steals  a  sighing  sound, 
The  leaping  rills  make  music,  and  the  groves 
Pour,  from  their  cloistered  nests,  a  warbling  hymn. — 
While  earth,  and  air,  and  ITature's  varied  voice, 
Like  the  clear  horn  amid  the  Alpine  hills. 
Is  praise  to  God,  at  this  blest  hour  of  morn. 

Morn  Cometh  to  the  cottage.     Through  its  door 


Peep  ruddy  faces.     Infant  mirth  awakes, 

The  fair,  young  milk-maid  o'er  the  threshold  trips, 


MORNING    IN    RURAL   AND    CITY   LIFE.  137 

The  shepherd's  dog  goes  forth,  the  lamb  sports  gay, 
And  the  swain  dips  liis  glittering  scythe  in  dew, 
"Which,  like  bright  tears,  the  new  shorn  grass  hath  shed. 
Joy  breathes  around,  while  Health,  with  glowing  lips 
And  cheek  embrowned,  and  Industry  with  song 
Of  jocund  chorus,  hail  the  King  of  Day. 

Morn  is  upon  the  city.     See,  how  slow 

Its  ponderous  limbs  unfold.     On  arid  sands 
Thus  the  gorged  boa,  from  some  dire  repast, 
^Uncoils  his  length.     Heaven  smileth  on  those  spires ; 
Yet  their  loud  -bells,  and  organ  pipes,  and  hymns 
Of  high  response,  are  silent.     Flame  hath  fallen 
Wlierewith  to  kindle  incense ;  still  man  locks 
His  bosom's  altar,  and  doth  sell  for  sleep, 
What  Esau  sold  for  pottage.     Lordly  domes 
And  marble  columns  proudly  greet  the  sun, 
But  not,  like  Memnon's  statue,  utter  forth 
A  gratulating  tone. 

Aurora  comes 
Lightly  pavilioned  on  a  purple  cloud ; — 
Sworn  worshippers  of  beauty — where  are  ye  ? 
Look! — Egypt's  queen  came  not  so  daintily, 
When  on  the  Cydnus  her  resplendent  barge 
Left  golden  traces.     But  your  eyes,  perchance, 

12* 


138  MORNING    IN    RURAL   AND    CITY   LIFE. 

Are  dim  with  splendors  of  some  midnight  hall, 
And  plunged  in  down,  forego  this  glorious  sight. 

Hark  !  life  doth  stir  itself.     The  dray-horse  strikes 

His  clattering  hoof,  eyeing  with  quivering  limb 

The  tyrant-lash.     And  there  are  wakeful  eyes 

That  watched  for  dawn,  where  sickness  holds  its  sway, 

Marking  with  groans  the  dial-face  of  Time. — 

Half-famished  Penury  from  its  vigil  creeps, 

The  money-seeker  to  his  labour  goes, 

Gaunt    Avarice   prowls — but   where    are   AVealth    and 

Power — 
The  much-indebted,  and  the  high-endowed  ? 
Count  they  heaven's  gifts  so  carelessly,  that  Morn 
With  glowing  blush,  may  claim  no  gratitude  ? 
Lo  !  from  their  plenitude  Disease  hath  sprung — 
The  dire  disease  that  ossifies  the  heart. 
And  Luxury  enchains  them,  when  the  soul 
With  her  fresh,  waking  pulse  should  worship  God. 


GKEGORY  BRANDON. 


[Gregory  Brandon,  the  executioner  of  Charles  the  First,  did  not  long  survive  him,  and 
pined  in  his  last  sickness  for  want  of  the  forgiveness  of  his  sovereign.] 


"  "What  irks  thee,  father  ? — in  thy  sleep 

I  see  thee  toss  and  start, 
While  sometimes  deep  and  fearful  groans 

Burst  from  thy  labouring  heart, 
And  often,  since  this  fever  came, 

I  hear  thee  mldly  say. 
Amid  the  conflict  of  thy  dream, 

'  Turn,  turn  those  eyes  away.'  " 

"My  life  hath  been  a  life  of  blood," 

The  sick  man  said  mth  pain, 
"  And  monsters  from  its  curdling  flood 

Creep  out  and  haunt  my  brain : 
But,  daughter,  such  hath  been  thy  love, 

That  I  will  tell  thee  true." 
He  paused,  and  o'er  his  forehead  came 

The  start! no-  drops,  like  dew. 

139 


140  GP.EGOr.Y    BRANDON. 

*^  When  civil  war,  witli  countless  ills, 

Our  suffering  land  dismayed, 
I  still  was  reckless  of  her  woe, 

Nor  loathed  the  headman's  trade. 
Full  many  a  proud  and  gallant  head 

My  axe  hath  slired  away, 
And  merry  was  I  in  my  cups, 

Though  I  had  need  to  pray. 

*'  Once,  on  a  bitter,  wintry  day. 

Five  weeks  from  Christmas  tide, 
Wlien  in  Rosemar}^  Lane  we  lived. 

Ere  your  poor  mother  died, 
Stout  Axtel  drew  me  from  my  home, 

Stern  man  he  was,  and  grim. 
And,  with  a  heavy,  silver  bribe 

Lured  me  to  go  with  him. 

"  A  butcher's  coat,  a  sable  mask. 

Did  form  and  face  enshrine, 
And  well  such  hideous  garb  beseemed 

So  dire  a  deed  as  mine, 
To  Whitehall's  stately  dome  he  led. 

And  by  that  palace  fair. 
Strange  guest !— a  scaffold  rudely  framed. 

And  block,  and  axe,  were  there. 


GREaORY   BRANDON.  141 

"  Then,  from  that  fair  and  princely  hall, 

Where  oft  the  feast  was  spread, 
He  came, — who  bare  the  anointing  oil 

Upon  his  royal  head. 
As  noble  was  his  beaming  brow. 

As  clear  his  dauntless  tone. 
As  when  a  sceptred  hand  he  raised,        *" 

And  filled  a  nation's  throne. 

"  None,  save  a  prelate  bathed  in  tears, 

A  servant  true  and  tried, 
A  soldier  with  uncovered  head, 

Stood  firmly  by  his  side  ;* 
Wliile  all  around,  a  countless  throng 

Like  blackening  clouds  did  lower. 
That  erst  with  peans  loud  and  long 

Would  hail  his  day  of  power. 

"  The  hour  had  come,  I  bowed  me  down 

There,  on  that  fatal  spot, 
To  win  his  pardon  for  my  crime ; 

Yet  he  forgave  me  not. 


*  Bishop  Juxon,  Sir  Thomas  Herbert,  and  Col.  Tomlinson,  accom- 
panied Charles  the  First  to  the  scaffold. 


142  GREGORY   BRANDON. 

But  turned  his  large  and  lustrous  eyes 

With  such  a  mournful  ray, 
That  never  from  my  inmost  soul 

Their  glance  hath  fled  away. 

"  The  hour  had  come.     The  prelate  spake 

Like  one  with  anguish  riven : 
'  One  stage  alone,  my  king,  remains, 

One  step  from  earth  to  heaven.' 
Calm  was  the  sufferer's  voice,  'A  clime 

From  all  disturbance  free, 
A  heavenly  and  immortal  crown 

A  good  exchange  shall  be.' 

"  He  murmured  low,  in  prayer  profound, 

Beside  the  block  he  knelt ; 
But  ah !  once  more  those  searching  eyes 

Did  make  my  spirit  melt. 
And  scarcely  knowing  what  I  did, 

I  struck  ! — with  hollow  sound 
Methought  the  moaning  earth  replied, — 

And  all  was  dark  around. 

"  I  saw  not,  when  that  head  they  raised ; 
Yet  on  the  scaffold  dire, 


GREGORY    BRANDOX.  143 

The  trickling  drops  of  sacred  blood 

Did  scatlie  my  soul  like  fire, 
Wliile  from  the  people's  grieving  heart 

Rose  such  a  groan  of  pain,* 
As  never  more  this  English  realm 

I  trust  shall  hear  again. 

"  Then  fiercely  through  the  mourning  ranks 

The  armdd  horsemen  rode. 
Rudely  enforcing  every  man 

To  seek  his  own  abode  ; 
But  there  in  mine,  my  glittering  hoard, 

My  thirty  pounds  well  toldj 


*  The  biographer  of  the  Rev.  Philip  Henry,  a  pious  and  excellent 
non-conformist  divine,  thus  remarks :  *'  He  was  at  Whitehall,  Janu- 
ary 30th,  1648,  when  the  king  was  beheaded,  and  with  a  sad  heart 
saw  that  tragical  blow  given.  Two  things  he  used  to  speak  of,  which 
I  know  not  whether  any  of  the  historians  mention.  One  was,  that,  at 
the  instant  when  the  blow  was  given,  there  was  such  a  dismal, 
universal  groan  among  the  many  thousands  of  people,  as  he  never 
heard  before,  and  desired  he  might  never  hear  the  like  again.  The 
other  was,  that,  immediately  after  the  stroke  was  struck,  there  was, 
according  to  order,  one  troop  marching  from  Charing  Cross  towards 
King-street,  and  another  from  King-street  to  Charing  Cross,  pur- 
posely to  disperse  and  scatter  the  people,  and  divert  the  dismal 
thoughts  that  they  could  not  but  be  filled  with,  by  driving  them  to 
shift  every  one  for  his  own  safety,'* 


144  GREGORY   BRANIX>N. 

Seemed  as  the  traitor  Judas'  hire, 
For  which  his  hope  was  sold." 

<'  0  father  !  father  !  fret  not  so," 

The  pitying  maiden  said, 
*'  It  was  your  lot,  and  not  your  will. 

To  do  this  work  of  dread. 
Grim  men  were  those,  and  hard  of  heart. 

Who  bore  the  rule  that  day ; 
And  had  you  spared  the  precious  blood. 

Most  sure  your  own  would  pay." 

"  They  might  have  torn  me  limb  from  limb, 

Or  crushed  me  to  the  tomb, 
But  thus  to  linger  slow  away 

Doth  seem  a  harder  doom, — 
To  moulder  piecemeal  here,  my  child, 

And  night  and  day  to  see 
Those  solemn  and  reproachful  eyes 

For  ever  fixed  on  me. 

"  In  health,  or  youthful  prime,  our  sins 

Lie  on  the  conscience  light ; 
But  in  the  dark  and  evil  time, 

With  scorpion  lash  they  smite. 


GREGORY  BRANDON.  145 

0  daugliter !  who  with  duteous  feet 

Life's  dangerous  path  dost  tread, 
Keep  clean  thy  hands,  keep  pure  thy  heart, 

And  hide  the  har  of  dread." 

Once,  at  the  chill  and  shadoAvy  dawn, 

"With  noiseless  step  she  crept 
Beside  the  sick  man's  bed  to  see 

If  peacefully  he  slept. 
The  straining  eyes  were  open  wide,     , 

The  lips  asunder  set. 
And  closely  clenched  the  w^asted  hands. 

As  if  some  foe  he  met. 


But  in  those  orbs  there  was  no  light. 

Upon  those  lips  no  breath. 
And  every  rigid  feature  wore 

The  torture  stamp  of  death. 
And  ever  as  she  onward  fared. 

Through  change  and  chance  of  life, 
Or  wrote  new  titles  on  its  scroll. 

Of  mother  and  of  wife, — 

Oft,  o'er  her  weary  couch  of  rest. 
The  dying  sire  would  seem 

13 


146  GREGORY    BRANDON. 

With  fixed  and  glazing  eyes  to  give 
Strange  horror  to  her  dream. 

And  as  the  sinful  wail  arose 
Of  one  who  shunned  to  pray, 

She  shuddered  at  the  spirit-cry,^ 
"  Turn,  turn  those  eyes  away.'* 


THE   DEPARTED   YEAR. 

Silent  and  solemn  pass  the  bannered  liours, 
As  to  a  chieftain's  funeral. 

With  sad  brow, 
And  arms  reversed,  they  hush  their  muffled  tread, 
"Waiting  the  last  toll  of  the  midnight  clock, 
Then  lift  him  from  his  hearse  and  lay  him  down 
In  the  dark  grave  with  such  a  mournful  dirge, 
Mid  the  red  torches'  glare,  that  he  who  heard 
Shall  ne'er  forget  again. 

Departed  year ! 
Thou  hast  had  fitting  obsequy,  as  one 
Worthy  to  be  remembered ;  yet  what  hand 
Can  wiite  thine  epitaph  ? 

Thou  hast  induced 
Changes  on  this,  our  little,  restless  ball 
Of  dust  and  ashes,  that  grave  History 
Starts  as  she  chronicles.     They  who  could  put 
Their  voice  into  men's  souls  and  stir  them  up 

147 


148  THE    DEPzVKTED   YEAR. 

Till  nations  trembled,  have  fallen  down  to  sleep, 
Weak  as  the  smitten  bahe. 

I^ew  thrones  have  sprung 
Forth  from  the  seething  ruins  of  the  past, 
"With  blood  and  fire  around  them. 

O'er  the  floods 
Men  speed  like  winds,  and  o'er  the  earth  like  flames. 
And  launch  their  errands  on  the  lightening' s  wing. 
Making  its  shaft  a  spear-point,  at  their  will 
To  pierce  the  dinted  target  w^here  old  Time 
Notched  his  slow  victories. 

Thou  hast  achieved 
Much  ere  thy  course  was  run.     But  thou  art  gone 
"With  buried  ages  to  hold  festival 
In  the  dim,  shadowy  halls,  where  ghostly  things 
"Wait  the  slow  verdict  of  posterity. 
Men,  fallible,  and  girt  with  prejudice. 
Pass  sentence  as  they  list ;  but  as  for  us, 
"Whom  on  our  journey  to  a  land  unknown 
Thou  didst  set  forward  duly,  night  and  day, 
We  shall  have  righteous  judgment  from  high  Heaven 
Concerninor  all  our  intercourse  vnth  thee. 


MONODY   TO  DANIEL   WADSWORTII. 

Thou,  of  an  honoured  name, 
That  gave  in  days  of  old, 
Shepherds  to  Zion's  fold, 
And  chiefs  of  power  and  fame. 
When  "Washington,  in  times  of  peril  drew 
Forth  in  their  country's  cause,  the  valiant  and  the  true. 
Thou,  who  so  many  a  lowly  home  didst  cheer, 

Counting  thy  wealth  a  sacred  trast. 
With  shuddering  heart  the  knell  we  hear 
That  tells  us,  thou  art  dust. 

Friend !  we  have  let  thee  fall 
Into  the  grave  and  have  not  gathered  all 
The  wisdom  thou  didst  love  to  pour 
From  a  rich  mind's  exhaustless  store  ; 

Ah  !  we  were  slow  of  heart 
To  reap  the  ripened  moments  ere  their  flight, 
Or  thou,  perchance,  to  us  hadst  taught  the  art 
Heaven's  gifts  to  use  aright ; 

Amid  infirmity  and  pain 
Timc'ri  golden  sands  to  save; 

13s  149 


150  MONODY    TO    DANIEL    WADSWORTII. 

With  steadfast  lieart  tlic  triitli  maintaiii ; 
To  frown  on  ills  tlio  life  that  stain, 
Making  the  soul  their  slave ; 
To  joy  in  all  things  beautiful,  and  trace 
The  slightest  smile  or  shade,  that  mantled  nature's  face. 

Yes,  we  were  slow  of  heart,  and  dreamed 
To  see  thee  still  at  evening-tide 

"With  page  of  knowledge  spread,  thy  pleasant  hearth  beside. 
When  to  thy  clearer  sight  there  gleamed 
The  beckoning  hand,  the  waiting  eye, 
The  smile  of  welcome  from  the  sky, 
Of  Her  who  w^as  thine  Angel  here  below, 

And  unto  whom  'twas  meet  that  thou  shouldst  long  to  go. 

Friend  !  thou  didst  give  command 
To  him  who  dealt  thy  soul  its  heavenly  bread. 
As  l)y  thy  suffering  bed 
He  took  his  faithful  stand, 
Not  to  pronounce  thy  praise,  when  thou  wert  dead ; 
So,  though  impulsive  promptings  came 
Warm  o'er  his  lips,  like  rushing  flame. 
He  struggled,  and  o'ercame ; 
Even  when  in  sad  array 
From  thy  lone  home,  where  summer  roses  t\^dned. 
The  weepers  listened  ere  they  took  their  way 


MONODY   TO    DANIEL   WADSWORTII.  151 

In  funeral  ranks,  thy  sable  licarse  beliind, 

And  'neath  the  hallowed  dome,  where  thou  so  long 

Hadst  meekly  worshipped  with  the  Sabbath  throng. 

Thy  venerated  form  was  laid. 

While  mournful  dirges  rose  and  solemn  prayers  were  made. 

Oh  Friend  !  thou  didst  o'ermastcr  well 
The  pride  of  wealth,  and  multiply 
Good  deeds,  not  done  for  the  good  word  of  men 
But  for  the  Master's  Eye, 
And  Heaven's  recording  pen. 
For  thou  didst  wisely  weigh 
Earth's  loud  applause  and  Fame's  exulting  swell. 
Like  bubble  dancing  on  the  noon-tide  ray, 
A  sigh  upon  the  grave. 
Scarce  stirring  the  frail  flowers  that  o'er  its  surface  wave. 

Yet  deem  not.  Friend  revered  ! 
Oblivion  o'er  thy  name  shall  sweep, 
For  the  fair  halls  that  thou  hast  reared 
Thy  cherished  image  keep ; 
Yon  fairy  cottage,  in  its  robe  of  flowers ; 
Those  classic  turrets*  where  the  stranger  strays 
Mid  works  of  pictured  art,  and  scrolls  of  ancient  days ; 

*  The  AYaclswortli  Atbencum  at  Hartford,  Connecticut. 


152         MONODY  TO  DANIEL  WADSWORTH. 

And  that  gray  tower,  on  Monto  Vidies  crest, 
Where  mid  Elysian  haunts  and  bowers, 

Thou  didst  rejoice  to  see  all  people  blest; 
These  chronicle  thy  name. 

And  still,  in  many  a  darkened  cot 

Where  penury  holds  its  sway, 
Thou  hast  a  tear-embalmed  fame 

That  may  not  quickly  pass  aw^ay, 
Or  lightly  be  forgot. 

Yet,  were  all  dumb  beside, 
The  lyre  that  thou  didst  wake,  the  lone  heart  thou  didst 
guide 
From  early  youth,  w^ith  fostering  care, 
Inciting  still,  to  do,  or  bear, 

As  God's  good-will  might  be ; 
These,  may  not  in  cold  silence  bide, 
For  Avere  it  so,  the  stones  on  which  we  tread 
Would  find  a  tongue  to  chide 
Ingratitude  so  dread: — 
IsTo !  till  the  last,  faint  gleam  of  memors-'s  fires 
On  the  worn  altar  of  the  heart  expires. 
Leave  thou,  the  much  indebted  free 

To  speak  what  truth  inspires, 
And  deeply  mourn  for  tliee. 


THE   MOTHER   OF  WOLFE. 

A  wniTE  sail  reached  the  Ocean  Isle, 

That  awes  the  subject  sea, 
And  with  electric  touch  awoke 

Wild  shouts  of  victory. 

"  Quebec  is  ours  ! — Montcalm  is  down  !- 

The  lilied  flag  is  low ! 
The  Plains  of  Abraham  all  are  strewn     ■ 

With  the  defeated  foe, 

"  There  lie  the  men  of  France  beside 

Their  Indian  allies  base ; 
Our  colonists  like  lions  fought. 

And  proved  their  Saxon  race." 

But  ah  !  the  sequel  of  the  tale  ! — 

Must  the  sad  truth  be  said, 
That  Wolfe,  Britannia's  hero  brave, 

Is  with  the  silent  dead  ? 

153 


154  THE  MOTHER  OF  WOLFE. 

In  tones  of  iimriuiired  grief  tliey  tell 
How  wound  on  wound  lie  bore, 

Yet  dauntless  ruled  the  buttle  tide 
On  tlitit  far,  rocky  shore. 

Until  the  fatal  shaft  was  sped, 

That  sealed  his  ardent  eye, 
And,  mid  the  trance  of  death,  he  caught 

The  sound,—'-  They  fly  !  they  fly  !" 

"  Who  fly  r'—"  The  French  /"—a  glorious  light 

His  pallid  brow  o'erspread  : 
"  I  die  content  ;" — the  heart  grew  still, 

And  he  was  of  the  dead. 

Red  bonfires  blazed  from  cliff  to  vale, 

Glad  bells  their  greeting  gave  ; 
The  loud  Te  Deum  richl}'^  swelled 

From  many  a  hallowed  nave, 

"Willie  to  St.  Paul's  the  exulting  king 

With  long  procession  hied. 
And  Pitt,  the  lofty  statesman,  drank 

The  cup  of  patriot  pride. 


THE  MOTHER  OF  WOLFE.  155 

Yet  iu  cue  Kentish  town  alone 

'No  jocund  peal  was  rung, 
And  sad  the  fallen  victim's  name 

Was  breathed  from  every  tongue. 

For  there  a  lonely  woman  bent 

O'er  her  last  earthly  trust, 
And  wept  as  only  mothers  weep 

"^^Hien  what  they  love  is  dust 

Her  thoughts  were  of  the  infant  head 

That  in  her  breast  would  hide, 
The  boy's  bright  brow,  the  clustering  curls, 

Her  early  matron  pride. 

The  youthful  smile,  the  sparkling  eye, 

Her  pulse  to  joy  that  stirred, 
The  manly  arm  that  never  more 

Her  feeble  form  must  gird, 

The  flowing  blood,  the  shuddering  pang, 

She  might  not  staunch  or  share ; 
And  all  his  laurels  were  foro-ot 

In  that  intense  despair. 


156  THE  MOTHER  OF  WOLFE. 

For  her,  even  hardest  hearts  confessed 

Soft  pity's  tender  tide, 
And  that  poor  widowed  mother's  grief 

Allayed  a  nation's  pride. 


THE  MUSE. 


They  say  that  the  cell  of  the  poet  should  be 

Like  the  breast  of  the  shell  that  remembers  the  sea, 

Quiet  and  still,  save  a  murmuring  sigh 

Of  the  far-rolling  wave  to  the  summer-lit  sky ; 

Tasteful  and  polished,  as  coralline  bowers, 

Remote  from  intrusion,  and  fragrant  with  flowers. 

'Twould  be  beautiful,  surely,  but  as  for  me, 

!N"othing  like  this  I  expect  to  see. 

For  I've  written  my  poetry,  sooth  to  say, 

In  the  oddest  of  places,  by  night  or  by  day, 

Line  by  line,  with  a  broken  chain. 

Interrupted,  and  joined  again. 

I,  if  paper  were  wanting,  or  pencils  had  fled, 

Some  niche  in  the  brain,  spread  a  storehouse  instead. 

And  Memory  preserved,  in  her  casket  of  thought. 

The  embryo  rhymes,  till  the  tablets  were  brought : 

14  157 


158  THE   MUSE. 


At  home  or  abroad,  on  the  land  or  the  sea, — 
Wherever  it  came,  it  was  welcome  to  me. 


When  first  it  would  steal  o'er  my  infantine  hour, 
With  a  buz  or  a  song,  like  a  bee  in  a  flower. 
With  its  ringing  rh}i:hm,  and  its  measured  line, 
What  it  was  I  could  scarce  divine, 
Calling  so  oft,  from  my  sports  and  play, 
To  some  nook  in  the  garden,  away,  away, 
To  a  mound  of  turf  which  the  daisies  crown. 
Or  a  vine-wreathed  summer-house,  old  and  brown, 
On  a  lilac's  green  leaf,  with  a  pin,  to  grave 
The  tinkling  chime  of  the  words  it  gave. 

At  dewy  morn,  when  to  school  I  hied, 

Methought  like  a  sister  it  went  by  my  side, 

Well  pleased  o'er  the  fresh  lanes  to  gambol  and  stray, 

Or  gather  the  violets  that  grew  by  the  way, 

Or  turn  my  lessons  to  rhyme,  and  bask 

In  a  rose,  'till  I  finished  my  needle's  task. 

When  Winter  in  frost  did  the  landscape  enfold, 
And  my  own  little  study  was  cheerless  and  cold, 
A  humble  resource  from  the  exigence  rose. 
And  a  barn  was  my  favounte  place  to  compose ; 


THE   MUSE.  159 

For  there  I  could  stow  myself  snugly  away, 
With  my  pencil  and  slate,  on  a  nice  mow  of  hay ; 
While  with  motherly  face  peeping  out  from  her  rack, 
The  cow  munched  her  food,  with  a  calf  at  her  back ; 
And  the  fancies  that  there  in  that  solitude  wrought, 
Were  as  chainless  and  bright  as  the  palace-born  thought. 


When  school  years  were  o'er,  and  the  tremulous  ray 
Of  the  young  dawn  of  life  took  the  tinting  of  day, 
With  ardour  and  pride  I  delighted  to  share. 
By  the  side  of  my  mother,  her  sweet  household  care. 
My  callisthenics  followed  each  morning,  with  zeal, 
Were  the  duster  and  broom,  and  the  great  spinning- 
wheel  ; 
IS'o  curve  of  the  spine  in  that  region  was  feared. 
And  of  nervous  diseases  we  seldom  had  heard. 
So,  singing  along,  with  a  buoyant  tread 
I  drew  out  a  line,  as  I  drew  out  a  thread. 
Bees  and  bluebirds  the  casement  flew  by, 
Yet  none  were  so  busy  or  happy  as  I ; 
The  voice  of  my  wheel,  like  a  harp  in  my  ear. 
And  the  Muse  keeping  time  with  her  melody  clear, 
And  the  joy  of  my  heart  overflowing  the  lay, 
And  my  parent's  approval  each  toil  to  repay. 


160  THE  MUSE. 

A  season  there  was  wlien  the  viol^ew  sweet, 

And  the  maze  of  the  dance  was  a  charm  to  mj  feet, 

For  Youth  and  Joy,  with  their  measures  gay, 

Beckoned  me  onward  both  night  and  day ; 

Yet  oft  in  the  soul  was  a  secret  tone 

Winning  away  to  my  chamber  lone, 

And,  lingering  there,  was  a  form  serene 

With  a  mild  reproof  on  her  pensive  mien ; 

And  though  I  feigned  from  her  sway  to  staii;, 

Having  music  enough  in  my  own  merry  heart, 

Yet  her  quiet  tear  on  my  brow  that  fell, 

Was  more  dear  than  the  dance  or  the  viol's  swell. 

When  life's  mantling  pleasures  their  climax  attained, 
And  the  sphere  of  a  wife  and  a  mother  was  gained, 
Wlien  that  transport  awoke,  which  no  language  may 

speak. 
As  the  breath  of  my  first-born  stole  soft  o'er  my  cheek, 
Wliile  she  slept  on  my  breast,  in  the  nursery  fair, 
A  smothered  lyre  would  arrest  me  there. 
Half  complaining  of  deep  neglect, 
Half  demanding  its  old  respect ; 
And  if  I  mingled  its  cadence  mild 
With  the  tuneful  tones  of  the  rosy  child, 
Methought  'twas  no  folly  such  garlands  to  twine, 
As  could  brighten  life's  cares,  and  its  pleasures  refine. 


THE    MUSE.  161 

And  now,  though  my  life  from  its  zenith  doth  wane, 

And  the  wreaths  of  its  morning  grow  scentless  and  vain. 

And  many  a  friend  who  its  pilgrimage  blest. 

Have  fallen  from  my  heart  and  gone  down  to  their  rest. 

Yet  still  by  my  side,  nnforgetful  and  true, 

Is  the  being  that  walked  with  me  all  the  way  through. 

She  doth  cling  to  the  High  Rock  wherein  is  my  trust. 

Let  her  chant  to  my  soul  when  I  go  to  the  dust ; 

Hand  in  hand  with  the  faith  that  my  Saviour  hath  given 

Let  her  kneel  at  His  feet  mid  the  anthems  of  Heaven. 

14* 


LISTEN. 

Wilt  be  a  listener  ? — not  to  tramp  and  shriek 

Of  the  great  iron  steed  that  roams  the  world, 

l^or  to  the  jingle  of  the  envied  gold 

That  rules  it, — these  thou  needst  must  hear  perforce, 

But  wilt  thou  list  to  cadences  that  dwell 

In  hermit  places  and  in  noiseless  hearts  ? 

Nature  hath  secret  lore  for  those  w^ho  lean 

Upon  her  breast,  with  leisure  in  their  soul 

To  hear  her  voice.     Birdlings  and  blossoms  speak 

Words  understood  by  all,  but  unto  him 

Who  puts  the  clamor  of  the  crowd  aside, 

Weeds,  and  the  rudest  rocks  give  utterance 

To  melody  and  truth.     Yea,  the  wide  earth 

Unfolds  itself  to  his  inquiring  glance, 

And  to  its  humblest  agents  lends  a  voice 

Of  wisdom.     Even  the  feeblest  wave  that  breaks, 

Casting  the  frailest  sliell  upon  the  shore, 

1G2 


LISTEN.  163 

Ilatli  pearls  for  liim.     lie  sees  tlie  spooiilike  leaf 
That  thrusts  itself  from  out  the  tropic  plant, 
Catch  a  bright  rain-drop  to  make  glad  its  root, 
And  win  the  mother-blessing.     The  pale  flower 
Braving  the  Alpine  cliff,  doth  tell  his  soul 
Of  the  kind  angel  that  did  nourish  it. 
Lo !  occult  Science,  with  her  midnight  lamp. 
Demands  the  silence  of  a  listening  mind, 
Refusing  to  be  wooed  by  those  who  pour 
Love  songs  to  fancy,  and  shun  solitude. 
Inklings  and  guessings  will  not  do  for  her, 
My  gay  young  student.     She  demandeth  facts 
"Well  followed  out,  and  toils  that  give  the  mind 
Sinew  and  muscle.     From  the  mount  she  comes 
Like  Moses,  with  strange  brightness  on  his  face, 
And  in  his  hand  the  tablets  of  the  skies. 
Graven  on  stone,  which  in  his  wrath  he  brake, 
To  find  a  dancing  people  mad  with  mirth 
Before  their  molten  calf,  who  should  have  knelt 
In  awe-struck  silence  of  humility, 
To  read  the  law  by  God's  own  finger  traced. 

"Wilt  listen  to  the  heart  ?  '  It  hath  a  sigh 

That  the  world  heeds  not,  an  inwoven  mesh 

Of  hidden  harp-strings.     If  thou'lt  hold  thy  breath, 

And  with  a  meek  and  noiseless  footstep,  glide 


164  LISTEN. 

Down  the  sad  pathways  of  humanit^^ 
Then  shalt  thou  hear,  from  every  passing  breeze, 
The  sigh  of  souls  that  have  no  comforter, 
Soft,  echoed  joys,  as  from  a  grass-bird's  nest, 
And  broken  strains  of  subhmary  hope. 
Till  feeling  in  thyself  the  quickening  tide 
Of  sympathy  for  all  whom  God  hath  made. 
Thou  lovest  the  Hand  that  rules  these  harmonies. 

So  listen,  that  the  monotone  of  self 
May  die  away,  and  with  Creation's  song. 
Of  many  parts,  thine  own  sweet  praise  ascend, 
Until  thou  join  the  harpers  round  the  throne. 


THE  THIRD  DAY  AT   SEA. 

Three  days  at  sea !     The  great-souled  waves 

Have  borne  us  on  their  crest, 
And  shrill-voiced  winds  from  Eol's  cave, 

Have  piped  us  to  our  rest, 
And  as  our  ship,  with  foot  of  fire. 

Doth  tread  the  surges  cold, 
And  leave  behind  a  glittering  scroll, 

Like  banner-staff  unroll'd, 
The  mighty  monsters  of  the  main 

Pause  in  their  boisterous  play ; 
Or,  glancing  through  the  window'd  brine, 

With  terror  haste  away. 

Three  days  at  sea !     I  little  thought 

'Twould  be  so  hard  to  say 
Farewell  to  home  and  cherished  ones, 

And  boldly  launch  away  ; 

165 


166  THE    TIIIUD    DAY    AT    SEA. 

For  from  my  cliildhood  I  had  longed 

Through  classic  climes  to  rove, 
"Where  yellow  Tiber  proudly  rolls, 

Or  Sappho  sang  of  love, 
Or  where,  o'er  Snowden's  forehead  gushed, 

The  Cambrian  harp, — ^but  tears 
That  round  my  hearth-stone  rained  that  morn, 

Made  dim  the  hope  of  3'ears. 

Three  days  !     As  long  as  he  of  old, 

The  recreant  prophet,  staid 
In  living  casket  strangely  sealed. 

Amid  the  sea-weed's  shade  ; — 
He,  who  from  crime-stained  Mneveh, 

Withheld  the  warning  cry, 
And  in  a  ship  of  Tarshish  thought 

To  'scape  the  all-seeing  Eye, 
And  then,  beside  his  smitten  gourd, 

Spake  out  with  murmuring  breath, 
To  vindicate  his  bitter  right 

Of  an2:er  unto  death. 

"  On  the  third  day  He  rose,''      Who  rose? 

My  spirit's  strength  and  stay ; 
Unto  whose  blessed  skirts  I'll  cling 

Till  life  is  rent  away. 


THE   THIRD    DAY   AT    SEA.  167 

It  matters  not,  though  death  draw  nigh 

In  curtained  chamber  fair, 
Or  on  the  deep,  'mid  wrecking  blasts, 

If  He  be  with  us  there : 
And  may  my  ransomed  soul  at  last, 

Time's  storm-tried  voyage  o'er. 
Sit  down,  like  Mary,  at  his  feet. 

And  listen  evermore. 


ORISKA. 

Far  in  the  west,  where  still  the  red  man  held 
His  rights  unrifled,  dwelt  an  aged  chief, 
With  his  young  daughter.     Joyous  as  a  bird, 
She  found  her  pastime  mid  the  forest  shades, 
Or  with  a  graceful  vigour  urged  her  skiflf 
O'er  the  bright  waters.     The  bold  warriors  mark'd 
Her  opening  charms,  but  deem'd  her  still  a  child, 
Or  fear'd  from  their  grave  kingly  chief  to  ask 
The  darling  of  his  age. 

A  stranger  came 
To  traffic  with  the  people,  and  amass 
Those  costly  furs  which  in  his  native  clime 
Transmute  so  well  to  gold.     The  blood  of  France 
Was  in  his  veins,  and  on  his  lips  the  wile 
That  wins  the  guileless  heart.     Ofttimes  at  eve 
He  sought  the  chieftain's  dwelling,  and  allured 

168 


OKlSlvA,  109 

Tlie  gentle  girl  to  listen  to  liis  talc, 

Well  framed  and  eloquent.     With  practised  glance 

He  saw  the  love-flush  on  her  olive  cheek 

Make  answer  to  him,  though  the  half-hid  brow 

Droop'd  mid  its  wealth  of  tresses. 

"Ah!  I  know 
That  thou  dost  love  to  please  me.     Thou  hast  put 
Thy  splendid  coronet  of  feathers  on. 
How  its  rich  crimson  dazzles  mid  thy  locks, 
Black  as  the  raven's  wing !     Thy  bracelets,  too  ! 
Who  told  thee  thou  wert  bea^utiful  ?     Hast  seen 
Thy  queenly  features  in  yon  mirror' d  lake  ? 
Bird  of  the  Sioux  !  let  my  nest  be  thine. 
And  I  will  sing  thee  melodies  that  make 
Midnight  like  morn." 

With  many  a  spell  he  charm'd 
Her  trusting  innocence ;  the  dance,  the  song, 
The  legend,  and  the  lay  of  other  lands ; 
And  patient  taught  his  pupil's  lip  to  wind 
The  maze  of  words  with  which  his  native  tongue 
Refines  the  thought.     The  hoary  chieftain  frown'd; 
But  when  the  smooth  Canadian  press'd  his  suit 
To  be  adopted  by  the  tribe,  and  dwell 
Among  them,  as  a  brother  and  a  son, — 
And  when  the  indulgent  sire  observant  read 
The  timid  pleading  of  Oriska's  eye, —     ' 


170  ORISKA. 

He  gave  lier  tenderly,  -nitli  sacred  rites, 
In  marriage  to  the  stranger. 

Their  sweet  bower 
Rose  like  a  gem  amid  the  rural  scene, 
O'er-canopied  with  trees,  where  countless  birds 
Carol'd  unwearied,  the  gay  squirrel  leap'd, 
And  the  wild-bee  went  singing  to  his  work, 
Satiate  with  luxury.     Through  matted  grass, 
With  silver  foot,  a  frolic  fountain  stole. 
Still  track' d  by  deepening  greenness,  while  afar 
The  mighty  prairie  met  the  bending  skies, — 
A  sea  at  rest,  whose  sleeping  waves  were  flowers. 

Nor  lack'd  their  lowly  dwelling  such  device 
Of  comfort,  or  adornment,  as  the  hand 
Of  gentle  woman,  sedulous  to  please, 
Creates  for  him  she  loves.     For  she  had  hung 
Attentive  on  his  lips,  while  he  described 
The  household  policy  of  prouder  climes ; 
And  with  such  varied  and  inventive  skill 
Caught  the  suggestions  of  his  taste  refined, 
That  the  red  people,  wondering  as  they  gazed 
On  curtain'd  window  and  on  flower-crown'd  vase. 
Carpet  and  cushion' d  chair,  and  board  arranged 
With  care  unwonted,  call'd  her  home  the  court 
Of  their  French  princess. 


ORISKA.  171 

A  rich  clustering  vine 
Crept  o'er  their  porch,  and  'neath  its  fragrant  shade 
Oriska  sang  her  evening  melodies, 
Tuneful  and  clear  and  deep,  the  echoed  truth 
Of  her  soul's  happiness.     Her  highest  care 
And  dearest  pleasure  was  to  make  his  lot 
Delightful  to  her  lord ;  and  he,  well  pleased 
With  the  simplicity  of  fervent  love, 
And  the  high  honour  paid  a  chieftain's  son, 
Roam'd  with  the  hunters  at  his  will,  or  brought 
Birdlings  of  brilliant  plume,  as  trophies  home 
To  his  young  bride. 

Months  fled,  and  with  them  change 
Stole  o'er  his  love.     And  when  Oriska  mark'd 
The  shadow  darkening  on  his  brow,  she  fear'd 
The  rudeness  of  her  nation,  or  perchance 
Her  ignorance  had  err'd,  and  strove  to  do 
His  will  more  perfectly.     And  though  his  moods 
Of  harshness  or  disdain  chill'd  every  joy, 
She  blamed  him  not,  for  unto  her  he  seem'd 
A  higher  being  of  a  nobler  race ; 
And  she  was  proud  and  happy,  might  she  bathe 
His  temples  in  some  fit  of  transient  pain, 
Or  by  a  menial's  toil  advance  the  feast 
Which  still  she  shared  not.     When  his  step  was  heard, 
She  bade  her  beating  heart  be  still,  and  smooth'd 


172  ORISKA. 

The  shining  tresses  he  was  wont  to  praise, 
And  fondly  hasting,  raised  her  babe  to  meet 
His  father's  eye,  contented  if  the  smile 
That  once  was  hers  might  beam  upon  his  child: — 
But  that  last  solace  fail'd,  and  the  cold  glance 
Contemptuously  repress' d  her  toil  of  love. 
And  then  he  came  no  more. 

But  as  she  watch' d 
Night  after  night,  and  question' d  every  hour. 
How  bitterly  those  weeks  and  years  were  notch'd 
Upon  the  broken  tablet  of  the  soul. 
By  that  forsaken  wife. 

Calm  moonlight  touch' d 
A  fair  Canadian  landscape.     Roof  and  spire, 
And  broad  umbrageous  tree,  were  saturate 
With  liquid  lustre.     O'er  a  lordly  dome. 
Whose  halls  had  late  with  bridal  pomp  been  gay, 
The  silvery  curtains  of  the  summer  night 
Were  folded  quietly. 

A  music-sound 
Broke  forth  abruptly  from  its  threshold  stone. 
Shrill  and  unearthly — not  the  serenade. 
That  thrills  on  beauty's  ear,  but  a  bold  strain, 
Loud  even  to  dissonance,  and  oft  prolonged 
In  low,  deep  cadence,  wonderfully  sad, — 
The  wild  song  of  the  Sioux.     He  who  first 


ORISKA.  173 

Awaking,  caught  that  mournful  melody, 
Shudder' d  with  icy  terror,  as  he  threw 
His  mantle  o'er  him,  and  rush'd  madly  forth 
Into  the  midnight  air. 

"  Hence  !  Leave  my  door  ! 
I  know  thee  not,  dark  Tvoman  !     Hence  away  I" 

"Ah  !  let  me  hear  that  voice  !     How  sweet  its  tones 
Fall  on  my  ear,  although  the  words  are  stern. 
Say !  know'st  thou  not  this  boy  ?  Whose  eyes  are  these  ? 
Those  chestnut  clusters  round  the  lifted  brow, — 
Said'st  thou  not  in  his  cradle  they  were  thine?" 

"How  cam'st  thou  here,  Oriska?" 

"We  have  trod 
A  weary  way.     My  father  and  his  men 
Came  on  the  business  of  their  tribe,  and  I, 
Unto  whose  soul  the  midnight  and  the  morn 
Have  been  alike  for  years,  roam'd  restlessly 
A  wanderer  in  their  train,  leading  our  boy. 
My  highest  hope  was  but  to  hear,  perchance, 
That  thou  didst  live ;  and  lo  !  a  blessed  guide 
Hath  shown  me  to  thy  home." 

^'Oriska,  go ! 
I  have  a  bride.  Thou  canst  not  enter  here — 
I'll  come  to  thee  to-morrow." 


174  oiirt^KA. 

"  Wilt  tliou  come  ? 
The  wliitc-liair'd  cliicf,  I  fear  me,  fades  away 
Unto  the  Spirit-land!" 

"I  bid  thee  hence, 
To  thine  abode.     Have  I  not  said  to  thee 
I'll  come  to-morrow  ?" 

With  a  heavy  heart, 
Through  silent  streets,  the  sad-brow' d  v>-oman  went, 
Leading  her  child. 

Morn  came,  and  day  declined, 
Yet  still  he  came  not.     By  her  sire  she  watch'd, 
O'er  whose  dull  eye  a  filmy  shadow  stole. 
While  to  her  troubled  question  no  reply 
Rose  from  his  palsied  lip.     Nature  and  age 
Slept  wearily  and  long.     The  second  eve 
Darken' d  the  skies,  when  lo  !  a  well-known  step — 
He  stood  before  her. 

*'Was  it  kind  of  thee, 
Oriska,  thus  to  break  my  bridal  hour 
With  thy  strange,  savage  music?" 

"Was  thy  wife 
Angry  at  the  poor  Indian  ?     Not  to  speak 
Harsh  words  I  came :  I  would  not  think  of  thee 
A  thought  of  blame.     But  oh  !  mine  aged  sire. 
Thou  see'st  him  dying  in  this  stranger-land, 
Far  from  his  fathers'  graves.     Be  thou  a  friend 


ORISKA.  IT. 

When  he  is  gone  and  I  am  desohite. 

Make  me  a  household  servant  to  thy  wife. 

I'll  bring  her  water  from  the  purest  spring, 

And  plant  the  corn,  and  plj  the  flying  oar, 

And  never  be  impatient  or  require 

Payment  from  her,  nor  kind  regard  from  thee. 

I  will  not  call  thee  husband, — though  thou  taught'st 

My  stammering  lip  that  word  when  love  was  young, — 

Nor  ask  one  pitying  look  or  favouring  tone, 

Or  aught,  except  to  serve  and  pray  for  thee 

To  the  G-reat  Spirit.     And  this  boy  shall  do 

Her  will,  and  thine." 

The  pale  face  turn'd  away 
With  well-dissembled  anger,  though  remorse 
Gnaw'd  at  his  callous  bosom  ! 

"  Urge  me  not ! 
It  cannot  be !" 

Even  more  he  might  have  said, 
Basely  and  bitterly,  but  lo  !  the  chief 
Cast  off  the  ice  of  death,  and  on  his  bed, 
With  clenched  hand  and  quivering  lip,  uprose : — 

"-His  curse  be  on  thee !     He,  who  knoweth  where 
The  lightnings  hide !" 

Around  the  old  man's  neck 
Fond  arms  were  wildly  throvfn.     ''  Oh,  curse  him  not ! 


170  (JRISKA. 

The  father  of  my  boy."     And  blinding  tears 
Fell  down  so  fast,  she  mark'd  not  with  what  haste 
The  white-brow'd  recreant  fled. 

"I  tell  thee,  child, 
The  cold  black  gall-drop  in  a  traitor's  soul 
Doth  make  a  curse.     And  though  I  curse  him  not, 
The  sun  shall  hate  him,  and  the  waters  turn 
To  poison  in  his  veins. 

But  light  grows  dim. 
Go  back  to  thine  own  people.     Look  no  more 
On  him  whom  I  have  cursed,,  and  lay  my  bones 
Where  my  dead  fathers  sleep." 

A  hollow  groan, 
Wrung  by  extremest  agony,  broke  forth 
From  the  old  chieftain's  breast. 

"Daughter,  I  go 
To  the  Great  Spirit." 

O'er  that  breathless  clay 
Bow'd  down  the  desolate  woman.     No  complaint, 
No  sigh  of  grief  burst  forth.     The  tear  went  back 
To  its  deep  fountain.     Lip  and  fringed  lid 
Trembled  no  more  than  in  the  statued  bronze. 
Nor  shrank  one  truant  nerve,  as  o'er  her  pass'd 
The  asphyxia  of  the  heart. 

Day  after  day, 
O'er  wild  and  tangled  forest,  moved  a  train, 


ORISKA.  177 

Bearing  "with  smitten  hearts  their  fallen  chief; 

And  next  the  bier  a  silent  woman  trod, 

A  child's  young  hand  forever  clasp'd  in  hers, 

And  on  her  lip  no  sound.     Long  was  the  way. 

Ere  the  low  roof-trees  of  their  tribe  they  saw 

Sprinkling  the  green ;  and  loud  the  funeral  wail 

Rose  for  the  honour'd  dead,  who,  in  his  youth, 

Their  battles  led,  and  in  his  wintry  years 

Had  won  that  deeper  reverence,  which  so  well 

The  forest-sons  might  teach  our  wiser  race 

To  pay  to  hoary  age.     Beneath  the  mounds, 

Where  slept  his  ancient  sires,  they  laid  him  down ; 

And  there  the  gather' d  nation  mourn' d  their  sire, 

In  the  wild  passion  of  untutor'd  grief; 

Then  smoothed  the  pillow'd  turf,  and  went  their  way. 


Who  is  yon  woman,  in  her  dark  canoe. 
Who  strangely  towards  Niagara's  fearful  gulf 
Floats  on  unmoved  ? 

Firm  and  erect  she  stands, 
Clad  in  such  bridal  costume  as  befits 
The  daughter  of  a  king.     Tall,  radiant  plumes 
Wave  o'er  her  forehead,  and  the  scarlet  tinge 
Of  her  embroider'd  mantle,  fleck'd  with  gold, 
Dazzles  amid  the  flood.     Scarce  heaves  her  breast, 


178  ORISKA. 

As  though  the  spirit  of  that  dread  abyss, 
In  terrible  ^blimity,  had  quell'd 
All  thought  of  earthly  things. 

Fast  by  her  side 
Stands  a  young,  wondering  boy,  and  from  his  lip, 
Blanching  with  terror,  steals  the  frequent  cry 
Of  "Mother!  Mother!" 

But  she  answereth  not. 
She  speaks  no  more  to  aught  of  earth,  but  pours 
To  the  Great  Spirit,  fitfully  and  wild. 
The  death-song  of  her  people.     High  it  rose 
Above  the  tumult  of  the  tide  that  bore 
The  victims  to  their  doom.     The  boy  beheld 
The  strange,  stern  beauty  in  his  mother's  eye, 
And  held  his  breath  for  awe. 

Her  song  grew  faint, — 
And  as  the  rapids  raised  their  whitening  heads. 
Casting  her  light  oar  to  the  infuriate  tide. 
She  raised  him  in  her  arms,  and  clasp 'd  him  close. 
Then  as  the  boat  with  arrowy  swiftness  drove 
Down  toward  the  unfathom'd  gulf,  while  chilling  spray 
Rose  up  in  blinding  showers,  he  hid  his  head 
Deep  in  the  bosom  that  had  nurtured  him. 
With  a  low,  stifled  sob. 

And  thus  they  took 
Their  awful  pathway  to  eternity. — 


ORISKA.  179 

One  ripple  on  the  mighty  river's  brink, 

Just  where  it,  shuddering,  makes  its  own  dread  plunge, 

And  at  the  foot  of  that  most  dire  abyss 

One  gleam  of  flitting  robe  and  raven  tress 

And  feathery  coronet— and  all  was  o'er, 

Save  the  deep  thunder  of  the  eternal  surge 

Sounding  their  epitaph ! 


THE  EETUEN  OF  NAPOLEON 

FROM    ST.     HELENA. 

Ho  !  City  of  the  gay  ! 

Paris  !  what  festal  rite 
Doth  call  thy  thronging  million  forth, 

All  eager  for  the  sight  ? 
Thy  soldiers  line  the  streets 

In  fix'd  and  stern  array, 
With  buckled  helm  and  bayonet, 

As  on  the  battle-day. 

By  square,  and  fountain  side, 

Heads  in  dense  masses  rise, 
And  tower  and  battlement  and  tree 

Are  studded  thick  with  eyes. 
Comes  there  some  conqueror  home 

In  trium2:)h  from  the  fight. 
With  spoil  and  captives  in  his  train, 

The  trophies  of  his  might  ? 


RETURN    OF    NAPOLEON.  181 

The  "Arc  de  Triomphe"  glows! 

A  martial  host  are  nigh, 
France  pours  in  long  succession  forth 

Her  pomp  of  chivalry. 
No  clarion  marks  their  way, 

No  victor  trump  is  blown ; 
Why  march  they  on  so  silently, 

Told  by  their  tread  alone  ? 

Behold  !  in  glittering  show, 

A  gorgeous  car  of  state  ! 
The  white-plumed  steeds,  in  cloth  of  gold, 

Bow  down  beneath  its  weight ; 
And  the  noble  war-horse,  led 

Caparison' d  along, 
Seems  fiercely  for  his  lord  to  ask, 

As  his  red  eye  scans  the  throng. 

Who  rideth  on  yon  car  ? 

The  incense  flameth  high, — 
Comes  there  some  demi-god  of  old  ? 

No  answer  ! — No  reply  ! 
Who  rideth  on  yon  car  ? — 

No  shout  his  minions  raise, 
But  by  a  lofty  chapel  dome 

The  muffled  hero  stays. 

16 


182  RETURN    OF    NAPOLEON. 

A  king  is  standing  there, 

And  with  uncover'd  head 
Receives  him  in  the  name  of  France : 

Receiveth  whom? — The  dead! 
Was  he  not  buried  deep 

In  island-cavern  drear; 
Girt  by  the  sounding  ocean  surge  ? 

How  came  that  sleeper  here  ? 

Was  there  no  rest  for  him 

Beneath  a  peaceful  pall, 
That  thus  he  brake  his  stony  tomb. 

Ere  the  strong  angel's  call  ? 
Hark  !  hark  !  the  requiem  swells, 

A  deep,  soul-thrilling  strain ! 
An  echo,  never  to  be  heard 

By  mortal  ear  again. 

A  requiem  for  the  chief. 

Whose  fiat  millions  slew, 
The  soaring  eagle  of  the  Alps, 

The  crush' d  at  Waterloo: — 
The  banish' d  who  return' d. 

The  dead  who  rose  again. 
And  rode  in  his  shroud  the  billows  proud 

To  the  sunny  banks  of  Seine. 


RETURN    OF   NAPOLEON.  1§3 

They  laid  him  there  in  state, 

That  warrior  strong  and  bold, 
The  imperial  crown,  with  jewels  bright, 

Upon  his  ashes  cold, 
While  round  those  columns  proud 

The  blazon'd  banners  wave, 
That  on  a  hundred  fields  he  won, 

With  the  heart's-blood  of  the  brave; 

And  sternly  there  kept  guard 

His  veterans  scarr'd  and  old, 
Whose  wounds  of  Lodi's  cleaving  bridge 

Or  purple  Leipsic  told. 
Yes,  there,  with  arms  reversed, 

Slow  pacing,  night  and  day. 
Close  watch  beside  the  coffin  kept 

Those  veterans  grim  and  gray. 

A  cloud  is  on  their  brow, — 

Is  it  sorrow  for  the  dead  ? 
Or  memory  of  the  fearful  strife 

Where  their  country's  legions  fled  ? 
Of  Borodino's  blood  ? 

Of  Beresina's  wail  ? 
The  horrors  of  that  dire  retreat. 

Which  turn'd  old  History  pale  ? 


181  RETUKX    OF    XAPOLKOX. 

A  cloud  is  on  their  brow, — 

Is  it  sorrow  for  tlie  dead  ? 
Or  a  shuddering  at  the  wintry  shaft 

By  Russian  tempests  sped  ? 
"Where  countless  mounds  of  snow 

Mark'd  the  poor  conscripts'  grave, 
And,  pierced  by  frost  and  famine,  sank 

The  bravest  of  the  brave. 

A  thousand  trembling  lamps 

The  gather'd  darkness  mock, 
And  velvet  drapes  his  hearse,  who  died 

On  bare  Helena's  rock; 
And  from  the  altar  near, 

A  never-ceasing  hymn 
Is  lifted  by  the  chanting  priests 

Beside  the  taper  dim. 

Mysterious  one,  and  proud ! 

In  the  land  where  shadows  reign, 
Hast  thou  met  the  flocking  ghosts  of  those 

Who  at  thy  nod  were  slain  ? 
Oh,  when  the  cry  of  that  spectral  host 

Like  a  rushing  blast  shall  be. 
What  will  thine  answer  be  to  them  ? 

And  what  thy  God's  to  thee  ? 

Paris,  Tuesday,  Dec.  15,  1S40. 


UNSPOKEN  LANGUAGE. 

Language  is  slow.     The  mastery  of  wants 
Doth  teach  it  to  the  infant,  drop  by  drop, 
As  brooklets  gather. 

Years  of  studious  toil 
Unfold  its  classic  labyrinths  to  the  boy ; 
Perchance  its  idioms  and  its  sequences 
May  wear  the  shadow  of  the  lifted  rod. 
And  every  rule  of  syntax  leave  its  tear 
For  jy^emory's  tablet. 

He  who  would  acquire 
The  speech  of  many  lands,  must  make  the  lamp 
His  friend  at  midnight,  while  his  fellows  sleep. 
Bartering  to  dusty  lexicons  and  tomes 
The  hour-glass  of  his  life. 

Yet,  there's  a  lore, 
Simple  and  sure,  that  asks  no  discipline 
Of  weary  years, — the  language  of  the  soul, 
Told  through  the  eye. 

The  mother  speaks  it  well 

16*  185 


180  UNSPOKKN    LANGUAGE. 

To  tlie  unfolding  spirit  of  lier  babe, 
The  lover  to  the  ladj  of  his  heart, 
At  the  soft  twilight  hour,  the  parting  soul 
Unto  the  angels  hovering  o'er  its  couch. 
With  Heaven's  high  welcome. 

Oft  the  stammering  lip 
Marreth  the  perfect  thought,  and  the  dull  ear 
Doth  err  in  its  more  tortuous  embassy; 
But  the  heart's  lightning  hath  no  obstacle ; 
Quick  glances,  like  the  thrilling  wires,  transfuse 
The  telegraphic  thought. 

The  wily  tongue. 
To  achieve  its  purpose,  may  disguise  itself. 
Oft,  'neath  a  glozing  mask ;  and  written  speech 
Invoke  the  pomp  of  numbers  to  enrich  ^ 

Its  dialect;  but  this  ambassador 
From  soul  to  sense  may  wear  the  plainest  suit, — 
Ebon  or  hazel,  azure-tint  or  gray, 
It  matters  not :  the  signet-ring  of  truth 
Doth  give  him  credence. — 

Once,  old  Ocean  raged; 
And  a  vex'd  ship,  by  maddening  waves  impell'd, 
Rush'd  on  the  breakers.     Mid  the  wild  turmoil 
Of  rock  and  wave,  the  trumpet-clang,  and  tramp 
Of  hurrying  seamen,  and  the  fearful  shock 
With  which  the  all-astonish' d  mind  resigns 


UNSPOKEN    LANGUAGE.  IbT 

The  hope  of  life,  a  mother  with  her  babe 

Sate  in  the  cabin.     He  was  all  to  her, 

The  sole  companion  of  her  watery  way, 

And  nestling  towards  her  bosom,  raised  his  face 

Upward  to  hers. 

Her  raven  hair  fell  down 
In  masses  o'er  her  shoulders,  while  her  eyes 
Fix'd  with  such  deep  intensity,  that  his 
Absorb'd  their  rays  of  thought,  and  seem'd  to  draw 
The  soul  mature,  with  all  its  burdening  cares. 
Its  wondrous  knowledge,  and  mysterious  strength, 
Into  his  baby-bosom. 

Word  nor  sound 
Pass'd  'tween  that  mother  and  her  youngling  child, — 
Too  young  to  syllable  the  simplest  name, — 
And  yet,  methought,  they  interchanged  a  vow 
Calmly  beneath  the  unfathomable  deep 
Together  to  go  down,  and  that  her  arm 
Should  closely  clasp  him  mid  its  coral  caves. 
The  peril  pass'd;  but  the  deep  eloquence 
Of  that  communion  might  not  be  forgot. 


A  youth  and  maiden,  on  the  banks  of  Tweed, 
Roved,  mid  the  vernal  flowers.     At  distance  rose 
The  towers  of  Abbotsford,  among  the  trees, 


1S8  UNSPOKEN    LANGUAGE. 

"VYhicli  lie,  the  great  magician,  "wlio  at  Avill 
Could  summon  "spirits  from  the  vasty  deep," 
Had  loved  to  plant. 

Methought  of  him  they  spake, 
Disporting  in  the  fields  of  old  romance 
With  Ivanhoe,  or  the  proud  knight  who  fell 
At  Flodden-field.     Then,  as  the  sun  drew  low, 
They  sate  them  down,  where  the  fresh  heather  grew, 
Listing,  perchance,  the  descant  of  the  birds, 
Or  ripple  of  the  stream.     The  hazel  eye 
Of  the  young  dweller  'neath  the  Eildon-Hills 
Perused  the  fair  one's  brow,  till  o'er  it  stole 
A  deeper  colouring  than  the  rose-leaf  tinge. 
— Speech  there  was  none,  nor  gesture,  yet  the  depth 
Of  some  unutter'd  dialect  did  seem 
Well  understood  by  them.     And  so  they  rose, 
And  went  their  way. 

There  was  a  crowded  kirk, 
But  not  for  Sabbath  worship.     With  the  train 
Was  more  of  mirth  than  might,  perchance,  beseem 
Such  sacred  place.     Wreaths  too  there  were,  and  knots 
Of  marriage-favour,  and  a  group  that  prest 
Before  the  altar.     And  the  trembling  lip 
Of  that  young  white-robed  bride,  murmuring  the  vow 
To  love  till  death  should  part,  interpreted 


UNSPOKEN    LANGUAGE.  181) 

That  strong  and  voiceless  language  of  the  eye 
Upon  the  banks  of  Tweed. — 

I  had  a  friend 
Beloved  in  halcyon  days,  whom  stern  disease 
Smote  ere  her  prime. 

In  curtain'd  room  she  dwelt, 
A  lingerer,  while  each  waning  moon  convey'd 
Some  treasured  leaflet  of  our  hope  away. 
The  power  that  with  the  tissued  lungs  doth  dwell, 
Sweetly  to  wake  the  modulating  lip. 
Was  broken, — but  the  violet-tinctured  eye 
Acquired  new  pathos. 

When  the  life-tide  crept 
Cold  through  its  channels,  o'er  her  couch  I  bent. 
There  was  no  sound.     But  in  the  upraised  glance 
Her  loving  heart  held  converse,  as  with  forms 
Not  of  this  outer  world.     Unearthly  smiles 
Gave  earnest  beauty  to  the  pallid  brow ; 
While  ever  and  anon  the  emaciate  hand 
Spread  its  white  fingers,  as  it  fain  would  clasp 
Some  object  hovering  near. 

The  last  faint  tone 
Was  a  fond  sister's  name,  one  o'er  whose  grave 
The  turf  of  years  had  gather'd.     Was  she  there, — 
That  disembodied  dear  one  ?     Did  she  give 


inO  UNSPOKEN   LANGUAGE. 

The  kiss  of  welcome  to  the  occupant 
Of  her  own  infant  cradle  ? 

So  'twould  seem. 
But  that  fix'd  eye  no  further  answer  deign' d, 
Its  earthly  mission  o'er.     Henceforth  it  spake 
The  spirit-lore  of  immortality. 


NO  CONCEALMENT. 


'There  is  nothing  covered,  that  shall  not  be  revealed;  and  hid,  that  shall  not  be  known.'* 

St.  BIatthew. 


Think'st  thou  to  be  conceal'd,  thou  little  stream  ! 

That  through  the  lowly  vale  dost  wind  thy  way, 
Loving  beneath  the  darkest  arch  to  glide 

Of  woven  branches,  blent  with  hillocks  gray  ? 
The  mist  doth  track  thee,  and  reveal  thy  course 

Unto  the  dawn,  and  a  bright  line  of  green 
Tingeth  thy  marge,  and  the  white  flocks  that  haste 

At  summer-noon,  to  drink  thy  crystal  sheen, 
Make  plain  thy  wanderings  to  the  eye  of  day ; 

And  then  thy  smiling  answer  to  the  moon. 
Whose  beams  so  freely  on  thy  bosom  sleep, 

Unfold  thy  secret,  even  to  night's  dull  noon. 
How  couldst  thou  hope,  in  such  a  world  as  this, 
To  shroud  thy  gentle  path  of  beauty  and  of  bliss  ? 

.  191 


102  NO    CONCEALMENT. 

Think'st  thou  to  be  conceal' d,  thou  little  seed ! 

That  in  the  bosom  of  the  earth  art  cast, 
And  there,  like  cradled  infant,  sleep'st  awhile, 

Unmoved  bj  trampling  storm,  or  thunder  blast  ? 
Thou  bidest  thy  time,  for  herald  spring  shall  come 

And  wake  thee,  all  unwilling  as  thou  art, 
Unhood  thine  eyes,  unfold  thy  clasping  sheath, 

And  stir  the  languid  pulses  of  thy  heart. 
The  loving  rains  shall  woo  thee,  and  the  dews 

Weep  o'er  thy  bed,  till,  ere  thou  art  aware. 
Forth  steals  the  tender  leaf,  the  wiry  stem. 

The  trembling  bud,  the  flower  that  scents  the  air; 
And  soon,  to  all,  thy  ripen' d  fruitage  tells 
The  evil  or  the  good  that  in  thy  nature  dwells. 


Think'st  thou  to  be  conceal'd,  thou  little  thought  I 

That  in  the  curtain' d  chamber  of  the  soul 
Dost  wrap  thyself  so  close,  and  dream  to  do 

A  hidden  work  ?     Look  to  the  hues  that  roll 
O'er  the  changed  brow,  the  moving  lip  behold, 

Linking  thee  unto  sound,  the  feet  that  run 
Upon  thine  errands,  and  the  deeds  that  stamp 

Thy  likeness  plain  before  the  noonday  sun. 
Look  to  the  pen  that  writes  thy  history  down 

In  those  tremendous  books  that  ne'er  unclose 


NO    CONCEALMENT.  19o 

Until  the  Day  of  Doom ;  and  blusli  to  see 

How  vain  thy  trust  in  darkness  to  repose, 
Where  all  things  tend  to  judgment.     So  beware, 
Oh  erring  human  heart,  what  thoughts  thou  lodgest  there. 

17 


THE  NEEDLE,  PEN,  AND  SWORD. 

What  hast  tliou  seen,  ^vith  tliy  sliining  eye, 
Thou  Keedle,  so  subtle  and  keen  ? — 
^'I  have  been  in  Paradise,  stainless  and  fair, 

And  fitted  the  apron  of  fig-leaves  there, 
To  the  form  of  its  fallen  queen. 

"  The  mantles  and  wimples,  the  hoods  and  veils, 
That  the  belles  of  Judah  wore, 
When  their  haughty  mien  and  their  glance  of  fire 
Enkindled  the  eloquent  prophet's  ire, 
I  help'd  to  fashion  of  yore. 

*'  The  beaded  belt  of  the  Indian  maid 

I  have  deck'd  with  as  true  a  zeal 
As  the  gorgeous  ruff  of  the  knight  of  old. 
Or  the  monarch's  mantle  of  purple  and  gold, 

Or  the  satrap's  broider'd  heel. 

I  have  lent  to  Beauty  new  power  to  reign, 
At  bridal  and  courtly  hall, 

19-i 


NEEDLE,    PEN,    AND    SWORD.  195 

Or  wedded  to  Fashion,  have  help'd  to  bind 
Those  gossamer  links,  that  the  strongest  mind 
Have  sometimes  hekl  in  thrall. 

"  I  have  drawn  a  blood-drop,  round  and  red, 
From  the  finger  small  and  white 
Of  the  startled  child,  as  she  strove  with  care 
Her  doll  to  deck  with  some  gewgaw  rare, 
But  wept  at  my  puncture  bright. 

"  I  have  gazed  on  the  mother's  patient  brow, 

As  my  utmost  speed  she  plied, 
To  shield  from  winter  her  children  dear, 
And  the  knell  of  midnight  smote  her  ear, 

While  they  slumber' d  at  her  side. 

"  I  have  heard  in  the  hut  of  the  pining  poor 
The  shivering  inmate's  sigh. 
When  faded  the  warmth  of  her  last,  faint  brand, 
As  slow  from  her  cold  and  clammy  hand 
She  let  me  drop, — to  die!'' 


What  dost  thou  know,  thou  gray  goose-quill  ? — 

And  methought,  with  a  spasm  of  pride, 
It  sprang  from  the  inkstand,  and  flutter'd  in  vaiu, 


190  NEEDLE,    PEN,    AND    SWORD. 

Its  nib  to  free  from  the  ebon  stain, 
As  it  fervently  replied : 

"  What  do  I  hioiv  ! — Let  the  lover  tell 
When  into  his  secret  scroll 
He  poureth  the  breath  of  a  magic  lyre, 
And  traceth  those  mystical  lines  of  fire 
That  move  the  maiden's  soul. 

*'  What  do  I  know  ! — The  wife  can  say, 

As  the  leaden  seasons  move, 
And  over  the  ocean's  wildest  sway, 
A  blessed  missive  doth  wend  its  way, 

Inspired  by  a  husband's  love. 

"  Do  ye  doubt  my  power  ?     Of  the  statesman  as! 
Who  buffets  ambition's  blast, — 
Of  the  convict,  who  shrinks  in  his  cell  of  care, 
A  flourish  of  mine  hath  sent  him  there. 
And  lock'd  his  fetters  fast ; 

"  And  a  flourish  of  mine  can  his  prison  ope, 
From  the  gallows  its  victim  save, 
Break  off  the  treaty  that  kings  have  bound, 
Make  the  oath  of  a  nation  an  empty  sound, 
And  to  liberty  lead  the  slave. 


NEEDLE,    PEN,    AND    SWORD.  19' 

"  Say,  what  were  History,  so  wise  and  old, 

And  Science  that  reads  the  sky  ? 
Or  how  couhl  Music  its  sweetness  store. 
Or  Fancy  and  Fiction  their  treasures  pour, 
Or  what  were  Poesy's  heaven-taught  lore, 

Should  the  pen  its  aid  deny  ? 

"  Oh,  doubt  if  ye  will,  that  the  rose  is  fair, 

That  the  planets  pursue  their  way, 
Go,  question  the  fires  of  the  noontide  sun, 
Or  the  countless  streams  that  to  ocean  run, 
But  ask  no  more  what  the  Pen  hath  done." 

And  it  scornfully  turn'd  away. 


What  are  thy  deeds,  thou  fearful  thing 

By  the  lordly  warrior's  side  ? 
And  the  Sword  answer'd,  stern  and  slow, 
"  The  hearth-stone  lone  and  the  orphan  know. 

And  the  pale  and  widow'd  bride. 

"  The  shriek  and  the  shroud  of  the  battle-cloud, 
And  the  field  that  doth  reek  below. 
The  wolf  that  laps  where  the  gash  is  red. 
And  the  vulture  that  tears  ere  the  life  hath  fled, 

•17* 


198  NEEDLE,    PEN,    AND    SWORD. 

And  the  prowling  robber  that  strips  the  dead, 
And  the  foul  hyena  know. 

*'  The  rusted  plough,  and  the  seed  unsown, 
And  the  grass  that  doth  rankly  grow 
O'er  the  rotting  limb,  and  the  blood-pool  dark, 
Gaunt  Famine  that  quenches  life's  lingering  spark, 
And  the  black-wing' d  Pestilence  know. 

"Death  with  the  rush  of  his  harpy-brood, 

Sad  Earth  in  her  pang  and  throe. 
Demons  that  riot  in  slaughter  and  crime, 
And  the  throng  of  the  souls  sent,  before  their  time, 

To  the  bar  of  the  judgment — know." 

Then  the  terrible  Sword  to  its  sheath  return'd, 

While  the  Needle  sped  on  in  peace. 
But  the  Pen  traced  out  from  a  Book  sublime 
The  promise  and  pledge  of  that  better  time 
When  the  warfare  of  earth  shall  cease. 


FEUITFUL  AUTUMN. 

Autumn  grows  pallid,  and  his  bounteous  course 
Draws  near  its  close,  while  with  a  feeble  hand 
He  languidly  divides  to  those  around 
The  last  love-tokens. 

A  few  brilliant  wreaths — 
Woodbine  and  dahlia,  tinged  with  berries  red 
And  twined  with  night-shade,  and  those  snowy  orbs 
That  cluster  mournful  round  their  naked  stems. 
He  gives  the  children,  and  to  older  friends 
Pointeth  the  rich  bequests  of  better  days. 
Full  granaries  teeming  with  the  golden  ear, 
And  o'er  the  fields  the  abundant  stacks,  where  throng 
The  quiet  flocks  and  herds. 

Art  satisfied. 
Thou  of  the  plough  and  spade  ?     Full  heir  of  all 
The  year's  perfected  bounty,  dost  forget 
The  bounteous  season  at  whose  voice  the  wain 


!00  FRUITFUL    AUTUMN. 

PtoU'd  heavy  from  the  harvest  ?     Earth  attests 
His  benefactions. 

But  hehold  lie  dies  ! 
Winds  sing  his  dirge,  and  the  bro-^n  leaves  bestrew 
His  pathway  to  the  tomb.     Mourning,  they  say, 
"Remember  how  he  clothed  us  in  bright  robes, 
Crimson  and  gold,  even  as  that  Jewish  king, 
Who  fell  at  Gilboa,  dcck'd  with  gorgeous  pride 
Fair  Israel's  daughters." 

Then  the  grass-blades  breathed 
A  lowly  sound,  which  he  who  bow'd  his  ear 
To  their  crisp  foreheads,  caught: — 

"  He  spared  us  long, 
Holding  the  frost-king  back,  that  we  might  cheer 
Man  with  our  simple  beauty.     Not  in  wrath. 
Like  some  who  went  before  him,  did  he  tread 
Upon  our  frailty.     So  we  give  him  thanks." 

Then  the  glad  birds,  from  their  migration  held 
By  his  warm  smile,  pour'd  forth  their  grateful  strain: 
"He  gave  us  food,  and  with  no  stinted  hand 
Scatter'd  the  seeds  that  pleased  our  callow  young. 
And  chained,  the  howling  blasts  that  ere  the  time 
Were  wont  to  drive  us  from  our  nests  away. 
For  this  we  love  him." 

And  the  bees  replied : — 


FRUITFUL   AUTUMN.  201 

"We  love  him  also,  for  he  spared  the  flowers." 
And  the  brisk  squirrel  mid  his  hoarded  nuts, 
And  the  light  cricket  in  its  evening  song. 
Yea,  the  poor  gadding  house-fly  on  the  wall 
Pronounced  him  pitiful  and  kind  to  them. 

So,  genial  autumn,  in  thy  grave  with  tears, 
As  when  a  good  man  dies,  we  la}^  thee  down, 
Covering  thee  with  the  verdure  thou  hast  spared, 
Fresh  sods  and  lingering  flowers. 

Thou  didst  not  trust 
Thy  purposed  goodness  to  another's  hand. 
Cheating  thy  soul  of  the  sweet  bliss  that  flows 
From  pure  philanthropy,  but  day  by  day 
Aroused  the  labourer  to  his  harvest-song. 
Gladdening  the  gleaner's  heart,  and  o'er  the  board 
Of  the  poor  man  pouring  such  fruits  as  make 
His  meagre  children  happy. 

Thus  like  thine, 
Friend  whom  we  praise,  may  our  own  course  be  found, 
Not  coldly  trusting  to  a  future  race 
Our  plans  of  charity  to  execute, 
When  we  are  gone ;  but  marking  every  hour 
With  some  new  deed  of  mercy,  may  we  pass, 
Bland,  blessed  Autumn  !  to  our  grave  like  thee, 
Mid  the  green  memories  of  unnumber'd  hearts 


TO-MORROW. 

OxcE  when  the  traveller's  coach  o'er  England's  vales 
Paused  at  its  destined  goal,  an  aged  crone 
Came  from  a  neighbouring  cottage,  with  such  speed 
As  weary  years  might  make,  and  with  red  eye 
Scanning  each  passenger,  in  hurried  tones 
Demanded,  ''Has  he  come?'' 

"No,  not  to-day; 
To-morrow,"  was  the  answer.     So,  she  turn'd, 
Raising  her  shrivel' d  finger,  with  a  look 
Half-credulous,  half-reproachful,  murmuring  low, 
"  To-morrow,''  and  went  homeward. 

A  sad  tale 
Was  hers,  they  said.     She  and  her  husband  shared, 
From  early  days,  a  life  of  honest  toil. 
Content,  though  poor.     One  only  son  they  had. 
Healthful  and  bright,  and  to  their  simple  thought 
Both  wise  and  fair.     The  father  was  a  man 
Austere  and  passionate,  who  loved  his  boy 
With  pride  that  could  not  bear  to  brook  his  faults 

202 


TO-MORROW.  203 

Nor  patiently  to  mend  tlicm.     As  he  grew 
Toward  man's  estate,  the  mother's  readier  tact 
Discern'd  the  change  of  character  that  meets 
With  chafing  neck  the  yoke  of  discipline, 
And  humour' d  it ;  while  to  the  sire  he  seem'd 
Still  but  a  child,  and  so  he  treated  him. 
When  eighteen  summers  threw  a  ripening  tinge 

O'er  brow  and  cheek,  the  father,  at  some  fault 
Born  more  of  rashness  than  of  turpitude, 

Struck  him  in  wrath,  and  turn'd  him  from  his  door 

With  bitter  words.     The  youth,  who  shared  too  deep 

The  fiery  temper  of  his  father's  blood, 

Vow'd  to  return  no  more. 

The  mother  wept, 
And  wildly  pray'd  her  husband  to  forgive, 
And  call  him  back.     But  he,  with  aspect  stern, 
Bade  her  be  silent,  adding  that  the  boy 
Was  by  her  folly  and  indulgence  spoil' d 
Beyond  reclaim.     And  so  she  shuddering  took 
The  tear  and  prayer  back  to  her  inmost  soul, 
And  waited  till  the  passion-storm  should  slack, 
And  die  away.     Long  was  that  night  of  wo, 
Yet  mid  its  dreary  watch,  she  thank' d  her  God 
When,  after  hours  of  tossing,  blessed  sleep 
Stole  o'er  the  moody  man.     With  quiet  morn 
Relentings  came,  and  that  ill-smother' d  pang 


204  TO-MORROW. 

AVith  \\liich  an  unruled  spirit  takes  the  lash 

Of  keen  remorse.     Awhile  with  shame  he  strove, 

And  then  he  bade  the  woman  seek  her  son, 

If  so  she  will'd.     Alas  !  it  was  too  late. 

He  was  a  listed  soldier  for  a  land 

Beyond  the  seas,  nor  w^ould  their  little  all 

Suffice  to  buy  him  back. 

'Twere  long  to  tell 
How  pain  and  loneliness  and  sorrow  took 
Their  Shylock-payment  for  that  passion-gust. 
Or  how  the  father,  when  his  hour  had  come. 
Said,  with  a  trembling  lip  and  hollow  voice, 
"Would  that  our  boy  were  here  !"  or  how  the  wife. 
In  tenderest  ministrations  round  his  bed. 
And  in  her  widow' d  mourning,  echoed  still 
His  dying  words,  "  Oh !  that  our  boy  were  here." 

Years  sped,  and  oft  her  soldier's  letters  came 
Replete  with  filial  love,  and  penitence, 
And  promise  of  return.     But  then,  her  soul 
Was  wrung  by  cruel  tidings,  that  he  lay 
Wounded  and  sick  in  foreign  hospitals. 
A  line  traced  faintly  by  his  own  dear  hand 
Believed  the  torture.     He  was  order'd  home, 
Among  the  invalids. 

Joy,  long  unknown 


TO-MORROW.  205 

Rusli'd  through  her  desolate  heart.     To  hear  his  voice, 
To  gaze  into  his  eyes,  to  part  the  locks 
On  his  pure  forehead,  to  prepare  his  food, 
And  nurse  his  feebleness,  she  ask'd  no  more. 

Again  his  childhood's  long  forsaken  couch 
Put  forth  its  snowy  pillow,  and  once  more. 
The  well-saved  curtain  of  flower'd  muslin  deck'd 
The  lowly  casement  where  he  erst  did  love 
To  sit  and  read. 

The  cushion'd  chair,  that  chcer'd 
His  father's  lingering  sickness,  should  be  his ; 
And  on  the  little  table  at  his  side 
The  hour-glass  stood,  whose  ever-shifting  sands 
Had  pleased  him  when  a  boy. 

The  appointed  morn 
Drew  slowly  on.     The  cheerful  coals  were  heap'd 
In  the  small  grate,  and  ere  the  coach  arrived 
She  with  her  throbbing  heart  stood  eager  there. 
"Has  Willie  come?" 

Each  traveller,  intent 
On  his  own  destination,  heeded  not 
To  make  reply.     "Coachman!  is  Willie  there ?" 

"Willie  ?     No  !  no  !"  in  a  hoarse,  hurried  voice, 
Came  the  gruiF  answer.     "  Know  ye  not  he's  dead, 

18 


206  TO-MORROW. 

Good  woman  ?     Dead  !     And  buried  on  the  coast, 
Four  days  ago." 

But  a  kind  stranger  mark'd 
How  the  strong  surge  of  speechless  agony 
Swept  o'er  each  feature,  and  in  pity  said, 
^'Perchance  hell  come  to-morrow.'' 

Home  she  went, 
Struck  to  the  soul,  and  wept  the  livelong  night, 
Insensible  to  comfort,  and  to  all 
Who  spake  the  usual  words  of  sympathy. 
Answering  nothing. 

But  when  day  return' d, 
And  the  slight  hammer  of  the  cottage-clock 
Announced  the  hour  at  which  her  absent  son 
Had  been  expected,  suddenly  she  rose, 
And  dress' d  herself  and  threw  her  mantle  on. 
And  as  the  coachman  check' d  his  foaming  steeda, 
Stood  eager  by  his  side.     "  Is  Willie  there  ? 
My  Willie?     Say!" 

While  he,  by  pity  school'd, 
Answer' d,  "  To-morrow.''' 

And  though  years  have  fled. 
And  still  her  limbs  grow  weaker,  and  the  hairs 
Whiter  and  thinner  on  her  wrinkled  brow. 
Yet  duly,  when  the  shrill  horn  o'er  the  hills 
Preludeth  the  approaching  traveller 


TO-MORROW.  207 

That  poor,  demented  woman  hurries  forth 
To  speak  her  only  question,  and  receive 
That  one  reply,  To-morrow. 

And  on  that 
Fragment  of  hope  deferr'd,  doth  her  worn  heart 
Feed  and  survive.     Lull'd  by  those  syren  words, 
"  To-morrow,''  which  from  childhood's  trustful  detwn 
Have  lured  us  all.     When  Reason  sank 
In  the  wild  wreck  of  Grief,  maternal  Love 
Caught  at  that  empty  sound,  and  clasp'd  it  close, 
And  grappled  to  it,  like  a  broken  oar, 
To  breast  the  shoreless  ocean  of  despair. 


EVE. 

For  tlie  first  time,  a  lovely  scene 

Earth  saw,  and  smiled, — 
A  gentle  form  with  pallid  mien 

Bending  o'er  a  new-born  child: 
The  pang,  the  anguish,  and  the  wo 

That  speech  hath  never  told,  ■ 
Fled,  as  the  sun  with  noontide  glow 
Dissolves  the  snow-wreath  cold, 
Leaving  the  bliss  that  none  but  mothers  know ; 
While  he,  the  partner  of  her  heaven-taught  joy, 
Knelt  in  adoring  praise  beside  his  beauteous  boy. 

She,  first  of  all  our  mortal  race, 
Learn'd  the  ecstasy  to  trace 
The  expanding  form  of  infant  grace 
From  her  own  life-spring  fed ; 
To  mark,  each  radiant  hour, 
Heaven's  sculpture  still  more  perfect  growing. 
More  full  of  power ; 


EVE.  209 

The  little  foot's  elastic  tread, 
The  rounded  cheek,  like  rose-bud  glowing, 
The  fringed  eye  with- gladness  flowing, 

As  the  pure,  blue  fountains  roll; 
And  then  those  lisping  sounds  to  hear, 
Unfolding  to  her  thrilling  ear 
The  strange,  mysterious,  never-dying  soul, 

And  with  delight  intense 
To  watch  the  angel-smile  of  sleeping  innocence. 

No  more  she  mourn' d  lost  Eden's  joy, 
Or  wept  her  cherish' d  flowers, 
In  their  primeval  bowers 
By  wrecking  tempests  riven ; 
The  thorn  and  thistle  of  the  exile's  lot 

She  heeded  not, 
So  all-absorbing  was  her  sweet  employ 
To  rear  the  incipient  man,*  the  gift  her  God  had  given. 

And  when  his  boyhood  bold 

A  richer  beauty  caught. 
Her  kindling  glance  of  pleasure  told 

The  incense  of  her  idol-thought : 


*  "  I  have  gotten  a  man  from  the  Lord."    Gen.  iv.  1. 
18* 


210  EVE. 

Not  for  the  born  of  clay 

Is  pride's  exulting  thrill, 
Dark  herald  of  the  downward  way, 
And  ominous  of  ill. 
Even  his  cradled  brother's  smile 

The  haughty  first-born  jealously  survey 'd. 
And  envy  mark'd  the  brow  with  hate  and  guile. 
In  God's  own  image  made. 

At  the  still  twilight  hour, 
When  saddest  images  have  power, 
Musing  Eve  her  fears  exprest; — 
"  He  loves  me  not ;  no  more  with  fondness  free 

His  clear  eye  looks  on  me; 
Dark  passions  rankle  there,  and  moody  hate 
Predicts  some  adverse  fate. 

Ah !  is  this  he,  whose  waking  eye. 
Whose  faint,  imploring  cry, 
With  new  and  unimagined  rapture  blest  ? 
Alas  !  alas  !  the  throes  his  life  that  bought. 
Were  naught  to  this  wild  agony  of  thought 
That  racks  my  boding  breast.'* 

So  mourn'd  our  mother,  in  her  secret  heart, 
With  presage  all  too  true ; 


EVE.  211 

And  often  from  the  midnight  dream  would  start, 
Her  forehead  bathed  in  dew; 
But  say,  what  harp  shall  dare, 
Unless  by  hand  immortal  strung, 
What  pencil  touch  the  hue, 
Of  that  intense  despair 
Her  inmost  soul  that  wrung  ! 
For  Cain  was  wroth,  and  in  the  pastures  green, 
Where  Abel  led  his  flock,  mid  waters  cool  and  sheen, 
With  fratricidal  hand,  that  blameless  shepherd  slew. 

Earth  learn'd  strong  lessons  in  her  morning  prime. 
More  strange  than  Chaos  taught. 
When  o'er  contending  elements  the  darkest  veil  was  wrought; 
The  poison  of  the  tempter's  glozing  tongue, 
Man's  disobedience  and  expulsion  dire. 
The  terror  of  the  sword  of  fire 
At  Eden's  portal  hung. 
Inferior  creatures  filled  with  savage  hate, 
No  more  at  peace,  no  more  subordinate; 
Man's  birth  in  agony,  man's  death  by  crime, 
The  taste  of  life-blood,  brother-spilt ; 
But  that  red  stain  of  guilt 
Sent  through  her  inmost  heart  such  sickening  pain. 

That  in  her  path  o'er  ether's  plain 
She  hid  her  head  and  mourn'd.  amid  the  planet-train. 


BELL  OF  THE  WRECK. 

The  bell  of  the  steamer  Atlantic,  lost  in  Long-Island  Sound,  Nov.  25th,  1846,  being 
supported  by  portions  of  the  wreck  and  the  contiguous  rock,  continued  to  toll,  swept  by 
wind  and  surge,  the  requiem  of  the  dead. 

Toll,  toll,  toll, 

Thou  bell  by  billows  swung. 
And  night  and  day  thy  warning  words 

Repeat  with  mournful  tongue  ! 
Toll  for  the  queenly  boat, 

Wreck'd  on  yon  rocky  shore; 
,   Sea-weed  is  in  her  palace-halls, 

She  rides  the  surge  no  more  ! 

Toll  for  the  master  bold. 

The  high-soul'd  and  the  brave, 
Who  ruled  her  like  a  thing  of  life 

Amid  the  crested  wave  ! 
Toll  for  the  hardy  crew. 

Sons  of  the  storm  and  blast. 
Who  long  the  tyrant  Ocean  dared, 

But  it  vanquish 'd  them  at  last ! 


BELL    OF   THE    WRECK.  213 

Toll  for  the  man  of  God, 

Whose  hallow'cl  voice  of  prayer 
Rose  calm  above  the  stifled  groan 

Of  that  intense  despair  ! 
How  precious  were  those  tones 

On  that  sad  verge  of  life, 
Amid  the  fierce  and  freezing  storm, 

And  the  mountain-billows'  strife  ! 

Toll  for  the  lover  lost 

To  the  summon 'd  bridal  train  ! 
Bright  glows  a  picture  on  his  breast, 

Beneath  the  unfathom'd  main. 
One  from  her  casement  gazeth 

Long  o'er  the  misty  sea; 
He  Cometh  not,  pale  maiden, 

His  heart  is  cold  to  thee ! 

Toll  for  the  absent  sire, 

Who  to  his  home  drew  near, 
To  bless  a  glad  expecting  group, 

Fond  wife,  and  children  dear ! 
They  heap  the  blazing  hearth. 

The  festal  board  is  spread, 
But  a  fearful  guest  is  at  the  gate : 

Room  for  the  slieeted  dead  ! 


214  BELL    OF   THE    WRECK. 

Toll  for  the  loved  and  fair, 

The  whelm' d  beneath  the  tide, 
The  broken  harps  around  Avhose  strings 

The  dull  sea-monsters  glide  ! 
Mother  and  nursling  sweet. 

Reft  from  the  household  throng ; 
There's  bitter  weeping  in  the  nest 

Where  breath' d  their  soul  of  song. 

Toll  for  the  hearts  that  bleed 

'^eath  misery's  furrowing  trace  ! 
Toll  for  the  hapless  orphan  left 

The  last  of  all  his  race  ! 
Yea,  with  thy  heaviest  knell 

From  surge  to  rocky  shore. 
Toll  for  the  living,  not  the  dead. 

Whose  mortal  woes  are  o'er ! 

Toll,  toll,  toll, 

O'er  breeze  and  billow  free, 
And  with  thy  startling  lore  instruct 

Each  rover  of  the  sea ; 
Tell  how  o'er  proudest  joys 

May  swift  destruction  sweep. 
And  bid  him  build  his  hopes  on  high, 

Lone  Teacher  of  the  deep  ! 


WINTER  AND  AGE. 

Gray  Winter  loveth  silence.     He  is  old, 
And  liketh  not  tlie  sporting  of  the  lambs, 
Nor  the  shrill  song  of  birds.     It  irketh  him 
To  hear  the  forest  melodies,  though  still 
He  giveth  license  to  the  ruffian  winds, 
That,  with  black  foreheads  and  distended  cheeks, 
Mutter  hoarse  thunders  on  their  wrecking  path. 

He  lays  his  finger  on  the  lip  of  streams. 
And  they  are  ice ;  and  stays  the  m^ry  foot 
Of  the  slight  runlet,  as  it  leapeth  down. 
Terrace  by  terrace,  from  the  mountain's  head. 
He  silenceth  the  purling  of  the  brook. 
That  told  its  tale  in  gentle  summer's  ear 
All  the  day  long  reproachless,  and  doth  bid 
Sharp  frosts  chastise  and  chain  it,  till  it  shrink 
Abash' d  away. 

He  sits  with  wrinkled  face. 
Like  some  old  grandsire,  ill  at  ease,  who  shuts 

21S 


216  WINTER   AND   AGE. 

Tlie  noisy  trooping  of  the  children  out, 
And  drawing  nearer  to  the  pleasant  fire, 
Doth  settle  on  his  head  the  velvet  cap, 
And  bless  his  stars  for  quiet  once  again. 
Stern  winter  drives  the  truant  fountain  back 
To  the  dark  caverns  of  the  imprisoning  earth, 
And  deadeneth  with  his  drifted  snows  the  sound 
Of  wheel  and  foot-tramp. 

Thus  it  is  with  man, 
When  the  chill  winter  of  his  life  draws  on. 
The  ear  doth  loathe  the  sounds  that  erst  it  loved, 
Or,  like  some  moodj  hermit,  bar  the  door. 
Though  sweetest  tones  solicit  it  in  vain. 
The  eye  grows  weary  of  the  tarnish'd  scenes 
And  old  wind-shaken  tapestries  of  time, 
While  all  the  languid  senses  antedate 
The  Sabbath  of  the  tomb. 

The  echoing  round 
Of  giddy  pleasures,  where  his  heart  in  youth 
Disported  eagerly,  the  rushing  tread 
Of  the  great,  gorgeous  world,  are  nought  to  him, 
Who,  as  he  journey eth  to  a  clime  unknown, 
Would  to  the  skirts  of  holy  silence  cling. 
And  let  all  sounds  and  symphonies  of  earth 
Fall  like  a  faded  vestment  from  the  soul. 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 

November  came  on,  with  an  eye  severe, 
And  his  stormy  language  was  hoarse  to  hear. 
And  the  glittering  garland  of  gold  and  red, 
Which  was  wreath' d  for  a  while  round  the  forest's  head, 
With  sudden  anger  he  rent  away. 
And  all  was  cheerless  and  hare  and  gray. 

Then  the  houseless  grasshopper  told  his  woes, 
And  the  humming-bird  sent  forth  a  wail  for  the  rose, 
And  the  spider,  that  weaver  of  cunning  so  deep, 
Roll'd  himself  up  in  a  ball  to  sleep ; 
And  the  cricket  his  merry  horn  laid  by 
On  the  shelf,  with  the  pipe  of  the  dragon-fly. 

Soon  the  birds  were  heard,  at  the  morning  prime. 
Consulting  of  flight  to  a  warmer  clime : 
"  Let  us  go  !  let  us  go  !"  said  the  bright- wing'd  jay ; 
And  his  gay  spouse  sang  from  a  rocking  spray, 

19  217 


218  BIRDS    OF    PASSAGE. 

"  I  am  tired  to  death  of  this  humdrum  tree ; 
I'll  go,  if  'tis  only  the  world  to  see  !" 

"Will  you  go?"  ask'd  the  robin,  "my  only  love?" 
And  a  tender  strain  from  the  leafless  grove 
Responded,  "  Wherever  your  lot  is  cast, 
Mid  summer  skies  or  the  northern  blast, 
I  am  still  at  your  side  all  your  wanderings  to  cheer, 
Though  dear  is  our  nest  in  the  thicket  here." 

"  I  am  ready  to  go,"  cried  the  querulous  wren, 
"  From  the  wind-swept  homes  of  these  northern  men ; 
My  throat  is  sore,  and  my  feet  are  blue ; 
I  fear  I  have  caught  the  consumption  too." 
And  the  oriole  told,  with  a  flashing  eye. 
How  his  plumage  was  dimm'd  by  this  frosty  sky. 

Then  up  went  the  thrush  with  a  trumpet  call, 
And  the  martins  came  forth  from  their  cells  on  the  wall, 
And  the  owlets  peep'd  out  from  their  secret  bower. 
And  the  swallows  conversed  on  the  old  church-tower, 
And  the  council  of  blackbirds  was  long  and  loud. 
Chattering  and  flying  from  tree  to  cloud. 

"The  dahlia  is  dead  on  her  thi'one,"  said  they, 
"And  we  saw  the  butterfly  cold  as  clay; 


BIRDS    OF    PASSAGE.  219 

Not  a  berry  is  found  on  the  russet  plains, 
Not  a  kernel  of  ripen' d  maize  remains  ; 
Every  worm  is  hid — shall  we  longer  stay 
To  be  wasted  with  famine  ?     Away  !  away !" 

But  what  a  strange  clamour  on  elm  and  oak 
From  a  bevy  of  brown-coated  mocking-birds  broke ; 
The  theme  of  each  separate  speaker  they  told, 
In  a  shrill  report,  with  such  mimicry  bold. 
That  the  eloquent  orators  started  to  hear 
Their  own  true  echo,  so  wild  and  clear. 

Then  tribe  after  tribe,  with  its  leader  fair, 
Swept  off  through  the  fathomless  depths  of  air. 
Who  marketh  their  course  to  the  tropics  bright  ? 
Who  nerveth  their  wing  for  its  weary  flight  ? 
Who  guideth  that  caravan's  trackless  way, 
By  the  star  at  night  and  the  cloud  by  day  ? 

Some  spread  o'er  the  waters  a  daring  wing. 
In  the  isles  of  the  southern  sea  to  sing, 
Or  where  the  minaret,  towering  high, 
Pierces  the  blue  of  the  Moslem  sky. 
Or  mid  the  harem's  haunts  of  fear, 
Their  lodgings  to  build,  and  their  nurslings  rear. 


20  BIRDS    OF    PASSAGE. 

The  Indian  fig,  with  its  arching  screen, 
Welcomes  them  in  to  its  vistas  green, 
And  the  breathing  buds  of  the  spicy  tree 
Thrill  at  the  burst  of  their  melody, 
And  the  bulbul  starts,  mid  his  carol  clear, 
Such  a  rushing  of  stranger-wings  to  hear. 

Oh  wild  wood-wanderers  !  how  far  away 
Trom  your  rural  homes  in  our  vales  ye  stray ; 
But  when  they  are  waked  by  the  touch  of  Spring, 
Shall  we  see  you  again  with  your  glancing  wing, 
Your  nests  mid  our  household  trees  to  raise. 
And  fill  our  hearts  with  oui'  Maker's  praise  ? 


AARON  ON  MOUNT  HOR. 

The  summer-day  declined  o'er  Edom's  vales, 
As  on,  through  rugged  paths  of  lone  Mount  Hor, 
Three  men  went  travelling  slow. 

One,  whose  white  beard 
O'erswept  his  reverend  breast,  moved  painful  on, 
And  ever,  as  the  ascent  steeper  grew. 
More  wearily  did  lean  on  those  who  lent 
Their  kindly  aid. 

I  see  the  mitred  brow 
Of  the  High  Priest  of  Israel,  and  anon, 
As  the  slant  sun  sends  forth  some  brighter  beam 
Through  the  sparse  boughs  and  cones  of  terebinth, 
His  dazzling  breastplate  like  a  rainbow  gleams. 

He  muses  o'er  the  distant  Past,  and  calls 
The  buried  years.     Each,  like  unwilling  ghost, 
Comes  up  with  its  dark  scroll  and  glides  away. 
Again  the  moan  of  Egypt  meets  his  ear, 
As  when  her  first-born  died ;  the  sounding  surge 

19*  221 


222  AARON    OX    MOUNT    IIOR. 

Of  tlic  divided  sea,  enforced  to  leave 

Its  ancient  channels;  the  aflfrighted  cry 

Of  Israel  at  red  Sinai's  awful  base ; 

Their  murmurings  and  their  mockings  and  their  strife ; 

The  sin  at  Meribah;  the  desert-graves 

Fed  with  a  rebel  race, — all  rise  anew, 

And,  like  the  imagery  of  troubled  dreams, 

Enwrap  the  spirit. 

With  what  earnest  eye 

And  mournful,  from  the  topmost  cliff  he  gazed. 

There,  stretching  round  its  base,  like  sprinkled  snow 

Were  Israel's  tents,  where  lay  in  brief  repose 

The  desert-wearied  tribes. 

Through  distant  haze 

Gleam'd  Edom's  roofs,  with  shadowy  palm-trees  blent ; 

While  farther  still,  like  a  black  Stygian  pool, 

The  lone  Dead  Sea  its  sullen  waters  roll'd. 

He  turn'd,  and  lo !  Mount  Seir  with  frowning  brow 
Confronted  him.     All  solemn  and  severe 
Was  its  uncover' d  forehead.     Did  it  rise 
Like  witness  stern,  to  stir  with  vengeful  hand 
The  sleeping  memories  of  forgotten  things. 
That  probe  the  conscience  ? 

Once  again  he  bent 
To  mark  the  tents  of  Jacob.     Fair  they  seem'd, 


AARON    ON    MOUNT   IIOR.  :l'-2 

Amid  ligu-aloes  and  the  cedars  tall 
That  God  had  planted ; — fairer  than  to  him, 
That  recreant  prophet,  who  was  yet  to  spy 
The  chosen  people,  resting  on  their  way, 
And  by  fierce  Balak's  side,  from  Poor's  top 
Take  up  his  parable,  changing  the  curse 
Into  a  blessing. 

But  to  Aaron's  eye, 
The  haunts  his  feet  must  ne'er  revisit  more 
Put  on  new  beauty.  '  For  the  parting  hour 
Unveils  the  love  that  like  a  stranger  hides 
In  the  heart's  depths. 

Was  that  his  own  sweet  home, 
Its  curtains  floating,  as  the  southern  breeze 
Woo'd  its  white  folds  ? 

He  pass'd  his  arm  around 
His  brother's  shoulder,  leaning  heavily, 
And  lower  o'er  his  bosom  droop'd  his  head. 
In  that  long,  farewell  look,  which  by  no  sound 
Reveal' d  its  import  to  the  mortal  ear. 


Anon  his  features  wear  a  brightening  tinge, 
And  o'er  his  high  anointed  brow  breaks  forth 
A  gleam  of  joy.     Caught  he  a  glorious  view 
Of  that  eternal  Canaan,  fair  with  light, 


J:  AARON    ON    MOUNT   HOR. 

And  water'd  by  the  river  of  his  God, 
Where  was  his  heritage  ? 

Or  stole  a  strain 
From  Miriam's  timbrel,  o'er  the  flood  of  death 
Urging  him  onward,  through  the  last  faint  steps 
Of  toil-worn  life  ? 

And  now  they  reach  the  spot 
Where  he  had  come  to  die.     Strange  heaviness 
Settled  around  his  spirit.     Then  he  knew 
That  death's  dark  angel  stretch' d  a  sable  wing 
'Tween  him  and  earth.     The  altar,  and  the  ark, 
The  unutter'd  mysteries  seen  within  the  vail. 
Those  deep-set  traces  of  his  inmost  soul. 
Grew  dim  and  vanish'd. 

So,  with  trembling  hand, 
He  hasted  to  unclasp  the  priestly  robe 
And  cast  it  o'er  his  son,  and  on  his  head 
The  mitre  place :  while,  with  a  feeble  voice, 
He  bless' d,  and  bade  him  keep  his  garments  pure 
From  blood  of  souls.     But  then,  as  Moses  raised 
The  mystic  breastplate,  and  that  dying  eye 
-Caught  the  last  radiance  of  those  precious  stones, 
By  whose  oracular  and  fearful  light 
Jehovah  had  so  oft  his  will  reveal' d 
Unto  the  chosen  tribes,  whom  Aaron  loved, 
In  all  their  wanderings — but  whose  promised  land 


AAHOi;    ON    MOUNT    IIOR.  225 

He  might  not  look  upon — he  sacllj  Laid 

His  head  upon  the  mountain's  turfy  breast, 

And  with  one  prayer,  half  wrapp'd  in  stifled  groans, 

Gave  up  the  ghost. 

Steadfast  beside  the  dead, 
With  folded  arms  and  face  uplift  to  heaven 
The  prophet  Moses  stood,  as  if  by  faith 
Following  the  sainted  soul.     No  sigh  of  grief 
Nor  sign  of  earthly  passion  mark'd  the  man 
Who  once  on  Sinai's  top  had  talked  with  God. 
— But  the  young  priest  knelt  down,  with  quivering  lip, 
And  press'd  his  forehead  on  the  pulseless  breast, 
And,  mid  the  gifts  of  sacerdotal  power 
And  dignity  intrusted  to  his  hand. 
Remembering  but  the  father  that  he  loved, 
Long  with  his  filial  tears  bedew'd  the  clay. 


ADVERTISEMENT  OF  A  LOST  DAY. 


Lost  !  lost !  lost ! 

A  gem  of  countless  price, 
Cut  from  the  living  rock, 

And  graved  in  Paradise; 
Set  round  with  three  times  eight 

Large  diamonds,  clear  and  bright, 
And  each  with  sixty  smaller  ones. 

All  changeful  as  the  light. 

Lost — where  the  thoughtless  throng 

In  fashion's  mazes  wind, 
Where  trilleth  folly's  song, 

Leaving  a  sting  behind; 
Yet  to  my  hand  'twas  given 

A  golden  harp  to  buy, 
Such  as  the  white-robed  choir  attune 

To  deathless  minstrelsy. 


LOST    DAY.  227 

Lost!  lost!  lost! 

I  feel  all  search  is  vain ; 
That  gem  of  countless  cost 

Can  ne'er  be  mine  again ; 
I  offer  no  reward, 

Por  till  these  heart-strings  sever, 
I  know  that  Heaven-intrusted  gift 

Is  reft  away  for  ever. 

But  when  the  sea  and  land 

Like  burning  scroll  have  fled, 
I'll  see  it  in  His  hand 

Who  judgeth  quick  and  dead ; 
And  when  of  scath  and  loss 

That  man  can  ne'er  repair, 
The  dread  inquiry  meets  my  soul, 

What  shall  it  answer  there  ? 


STOEM-SAILS. 

Out  with  thy  storm-sails,  for  the  blast  is  loud, 
And  seas  and  skies  commingle. 

Pleasant  smiles, 
Fond  cheering  hopes,  delightful  sympathies, 
Story  and  song,  the  needle's  varied  skill. 
The  shaded  lamp,  the  glowing  grate  at  eve, 
The  page  made  vocal  by  a  taste  refined. 
Imparted  memories,  plans  for  others'  good, 
These  are  a  woman's  storm-sails.     Fain  we'd  keep 
Each  one  in  readiness,  whene'er  the  cloud 
Maketh  our  home  our  fortress,  and  debars 
Egress  abroad. 

So,  choose  ye  which  to  spread, 
My  fair  young  lady.     For  the  foot  of  youth 
Is  nimblest  mid  the  shrouds  of  social  life, 
And  readiest  should  its  fairy  hand  unfurl 
The  household  banner  of  true  happiness. 
What  has  thy  brow  to  do  with  frowns  ?  thy  heart 
With  selfish  lore  ?  as  yet,  so  little  school'd 

228 


STORM    SAILS. 


229 


In  the  world's  venal  traffic.     Make  thine  eye 
A  cheering  light-house  to  the  voyager 
Wearied  and  worn.     Shed  blessed  hope  on  all, 
Parent,  fraternal  group,  or  transient  guest ; 
Nor  let  the  toiling  servant  be  forgot, 
"Who  in  the  casket  of  remembrance  stores 
Each  word  of  praise. 

Mother,  when  tempests  rage. 
Draw  thy  young  children  nearer.     Let  them  share 
The  intercourse  that,  while  it  soothes,  instructs. 
And  elevates  the  soul.     Implant  some  germ 
Of  truth,  or  tenderness,  or  holy  faith. 
And  trust  the  rain  of  heaven  to  water  it. 
So  shall  those  sweet,  unfolding  blossoms  blend 
In  future  years  thine  image  with  the  storm, 
Like  the  pure  rainbow,  with  its  glorious  scroll 
Teaching  of  God. 

Scholar,  and  child  of  rhyme, 
This  is  thy  holiday.     No  vexing  fear 
Of  interruption,  and  no  idler's  foot 
Shall  mar  thy  revery. 

And  while  the  flame 
Of  blissful  impulse  nerves  thy  flying  pen. 
Write  on  thy  storm-sails  deathless  thoughts  to  guide 
Thy  wind-swept  brother  to  the  port  of  peace. 


THE  SCOTTISH  WEAVER. 

As  hasting  night  o'er  Scotia's  plains 

Its  murky  mantle  flung, 
And  on  its  skirts  with  ruffian  wrath 

A  threatening  tempest  hung, 

Beside  a  farm-house  door,  a  voice 
Rose  o'er  the  howling  blast, 
"Ah  !  give  us  shelter  from  the  storm, 
The  darkness  gathers  fast. 

"  We  are  not  vagrants,  God  forbid ! 
A  dark  and  evil  day, 
That  made  so  many  looms  stand  stiU, 
Hath  taken  our  bread  away. 

*'And  now,  to  Inverary's  vales, 
In  search  of  work  we  go, 
And  thrice  the  setting  sun  hath  seen 
Our  way-worn  course,  and  slow. 


SCOTTISH    WEAVER. 

"My  wife  a  nursing  infant  bears, 
Three  younglings  at  her  side, 
Weary  and  cold,"— but  churlish  tones 
The  earnest  suit  denied. 

"The  humblest  shed  is  all  we  ask, 
Your  food  we  will  not  crave, 
And  blessings  on  your  head  shall  rest 
E'en  till  we  find  a  grave. 

"Ah!  for  our  dear  Redeemer's  sake, 
^Let  us  till  morning  stay," 
The  harsh  key  grated  in  its  ward, — 
The  suppliant  turn'd  away. 

He  held  his  hand  before  his  face 

To  bar  the  blinding  sleet. 
And  sorrow'd  for  those  hearts  that  soon 

Such  dread  repulse  must  meet. 


231 


"0  husband,  you  have  linger'd  long 
'Tis  lonesome  on  the  wold; 
Up,  bairnies,  to  yon  bonny  house, 
And  shield  ye  from  the  cold." 


232  SCOTTISH  \yeaver. 

The  wretched  man  bent  shuddering  down, 
Scarce  kcnn'd  he  what  to  say, 

He  could  not  find  it  in  liis  heart 
To  take  her  hope  away. 

Yet  o'er  the  moor,  for  many  a  league, 

All  desolate  and  drear. 
He  knew  no  other  dwelling  rose, 

The  traveller's  sight  to  cheer. 

**  Jeanie,  my  poor  and  patient  wife, 
God  give  thee  strength  to  bear ; 
'Neath  yonder  roof  we  may  not  bide, 
There  is  no  mercy  there." 

The  weary  woman  groan'd  aloud: 

"Not  for  myself  I  cry. 
But  for  the  babe  that  feebly  pines, 

Methinks  its  death  is  nigh." 

The  little  children  sobb'd  and  wept, 
And,  clinging  round  her,  said, 
"  0  mother  !  mother  !  'tis  so  long 
Since  you  have  given  us  bread." 


SCOTTISH    WEAVER.  233 

The  pitying  f\itlier  liusli'd  their  grief, 

And  drew  thefia  to  his  side, 
Till  sleep,  the  angel,  on  their  cheeks 

The  trickling  sorrow  dried; 

Then  spread  his  mantle  o'er  their  breasts, 

Scant  though  it  was  and  poor. 
And  there  mid  driving  snows  thej  cower'd, 

Upon  the  dreary  moor. 

Wild  throbb'd  his  aching  head,  and  wide 

His  starting  eyeballs  strain, 
While  through  the  darkness,  lurid  fires 

Seem'd  flashing  from  his  brain: 

Strange  phantom-forms  went  gibbering  by, 

And  woke  to  fearful  strife 
The  thoughts  that  nerve  the  reckless  hand 

Against  the  traveller's  life. 

A  new  and  dauntless  strength  he  felt, 

Like  giant  in  his  prime, 
Such  strength  as  drives  the  madden'd  wretch 

To  judgment  ere  his  time. 


234  SCOTTISH   WEAVER. 

But  from  the  fountain  of  his  soul 

Uprose  a  contrite  prayer, 
That  Heaven  wouki  crush  tlie  seeds  of  crime, 

And  break  the  tempter's  snare. 

Kind  tones  the  awful  reverj  broke, 

A  human  form  drew  near, 
An  humble  serving-man  who  mark'd 

Their  misery  severe ; 

One  who  the  stern  denial  heard 
That  check' d  the  plaint  of  need, 

And  ventured  to  an  outhouse  rude 
The  hapless  group  to  lead. 

Oh  poor  man,  who  thyself  hast  quaked 
'Neath  hunger-pang,  and  cold, 

Or  felt  the  lashing  of  the  winds 
Through  garments  thin  and  old; 

Far  better  canst  thou  feel  for  those 

Who  bide  misfortune's  blast, 
Than  Plenty's  proud  and  pamper'd  sons 

Who  share  the  rich  repast, 


SCOTTISH    WEAVER.  235 

Who,  lapp'd  in  luxury,  rejoice 

By  fireside  bright  and  warm. 
Or  from  their  curtain 'd  pillow  list 

The  howling  of  the  storm. 

Rest  to  those  wearied  ones,  how  sweet ! 

E'en  on  that  pauper-bed. 
The  tatter'd  blanket  o'er  them  cast, 

The  straw  beneath  them  spread. 

But,  at  gray  dawn,  a  piercing  shriek ! 
Hark  to  that  wild  despair  ! 
"My  babe  !  my  babe  !  she  breathes  no  more  !" 
Oh  Spoiler  !  art  thou  there  ? 

That  ghastly  face  the  children  mark'd 

As  up  from  sleep  they  sprang. 
The  thin  blue  fingers  clench' d  so  close 

In  the  last  hunger-pang. 

And  pitiful  it  was  to  see 

How  meagre  want  and  care 
Had  set  the  wasting  seal  of  years 

On  brow  so  small  and  fair. 


'2-}Q  SCOTTK-II    AVEAVEll. 

Loud  rose  the  wail  of  childliood's  wo: 

"Will  she  not  wake  again, 
Our  play-mate  sister  ?     Never  more  ?" 

Keen  was  that  transient  pain. 

But  whosoe'er  hath  chanced  to  hear 

A  mother's  cry  of  dread, 
"Who,  waking,  on  her  bosom  finds 

Her  nursling  cold  and  dead, — 

Its  nerveless  lip  empower' d  no  more 

The  fount  of  life  to  press, 
And  gleeful  smile  and  speaking  eye 

Mute  to  the  fond  caress, — 

I  say,  w^hoe'er  that  sound  hath  heard 

Invade  his  lone  retreat. 
Will  keep  the  echo  in  his  soul 

While  memory  holds  her  seat. 

The  father  started  to  her  side, 

He  spoke  no  word  of  wo ; 
Words  ! — would  they  dare  in  such  an  hour 

Their  poverty  to  show  ? 


SCOTTISH   WEAVER. 

E'en  manly  nature  reel'd  to  meet 
Such  sudden  shock  of  grief, — • 

And  drowning  thought  to  trifles  clung, 
In  search  of  vain  relief. 

The  swallows,  startled  from  their  nests 
By  pain's  discordant  sound. 

Among  the  rafters  bare  and  brown 
Went  circling  round  and  round ; 

And  gazing  on  their  aimless  flight, 

He  strove,  with  futile  care, 
To  parry  for  a  little  space 

The  anguish  of  despair. 

But  now,  e'en  hardest  human  hearts 
With  sympathy  were  fraught, 

For  late  remorse  the  kindness  woke 
That  pity  should  have  taught. 

There  lay  the  babe  so  still  and  cold, 
Crush'd  'neath  affliction's  weight, 

For  whom,  perchance,  their  earlier  care 
Had  won  a  longer  date ; 


237 


238  SCOTTISH    WEAVER. 

But  in  the  churcliyard's  grassy  bound 

A  narrow  spot  they  gave, 
With  tardy  charity,  that  yields — 

Instead  of  bread — a  grave. 

Sad  tears  of  agonizing  grief 
Bedew' d  the  darling's  clay, 

And  then  that  stricken-hearted  group 
Pursued  their  mournful  way. 

O'er  Scotia's  glens  and  mountains  rude 
A  toilsome  path  they  wound, 

Or  'neath  some  cotter's  lowly  roof 
A  nightly  shelter  found, 

Until,  mid  Inverary's  vales, 
Once  more  a  home  they  knew, 

And  from  the  father's  earnest  hand 
The  unresting  shuttle  flew. 

And  though  but  scant  the  dole  he  earn'd, 
Yet  prudence  found  a  way 

To  make  it  satisfy  the  needs 
Of  each  returning  day. 


SCOTTISH   WEAVER.  239 

So,  to  her  parents'  heavy  lot 

Some  filial  aid  to  lend, 
The  eldest,  Bessie,  left  her  home, 

A  shepherd's  flock  to  tend. 

Unceasing,  for  her  helpless  ones. 

The  industrious  mother  strove. 
And  season'd  still  the  homeliest  meal 

With  sweet  maternal  love. 

• 
Oft,  when  the  quiet  gloaming  fell 

O'er  heathery  field  and  hill. 
And  'tween  the  daylight  and  the  dark 

Her  busier  toils  were  still. 

She  told  them  wild  and  stirring  tales 

Of  Scotia's  old  renown. 
And  of  the  Bruce  who  bravely  won, 

In  evil  times,  the  crown; 

Or  sang,  to  rouse  their  patriot  zeal, 

Some  high,  heroic  stave ; 
Or  whisper'd,  through  her  swelling  tears, 

Of  their  lost  sister's  grave ; 


240  SCOTTISH  weaver. 

Or  bade  them  duly,  night  and  morn, 
Whene'er  they  knelt  in  prayer, 

To  supplicate  for  Bessie  dear 
Their  God's  protecting  care. 

Yet  joyous  was  the  hour  when  they, 

With  shout  and  gambol  fleet, 
Went  bounding  from  the  cottage  door 

The  approaching  sire  to  greet, 

Who  twice  a  month,  from  distant  scenes 

Of  weary  toil  and  care, 
Walk'd  three  times  three  long  Scottish  miles 

To  spend  his  Sabbath  there. 

And  when,  like  lone  and  glimmering  star, 

Across  the  heath  he  spied 
The  rush-light  in  the  window  placed 

His  homeward  steps  to  guide, 

Methought  a  spirit's  wing  was  his, 

From  all  obstruction  free, 
Till  by  his  Jeanie's  side  he  sate. 

The  wee  things  on  his  knee. 


SCOTTISH   WEAVER. 

There,  wliile  the  humble  fire  of  peat 

A  flickering  radiance  threw, 
The  oatmeal  parritch  had  a  zest 

The  unloving  never  knew. 

And  from  the  poor  man's  thrilling  heart 

Such  grateful  praise  arose, 
As  they  have  never  learn' d  to  breathe 

Who  never  shared  his  woes. 

Once,  when  the  hallow' d  day  of  rest 

Had  pass'd  serenely  by. 
And  evening  with  its  sober  vail 

Encompass' d  earth  and  sky, 

Their  cottage  worship  duly  paid, 
While  from  the  pallet  near, 

The  little  sleepers'  breathing  fell 
Like  music  on  their  ear, 

The  faithful  pair  with  kind  discourse 
Beguiled  the  gathering  shade. 

As  fitful  o'er  the  darken' d  wall 
The  blinking  ingle  play'd. 


241 


212  SCOTTISH   WEAVER. 

Then  Jeanie  many  a  soothing  word 

To  Willie's  heart  address'd, 
Her  head  upon  his  shoulder  laid. 

His  arm  around  her  press'd. 

Much  of  their  bairnies'  weal  she  spake, 

And  with  confiding  air 
Incited  for  their  tender  years 

A  father's  watchful  care, 

With  tearful  eye  and  trembling  tone, 

As  one  about  to  trust 
Fond  treasures  to  another's  hand, 

And  slumber  in  the  dust. 

Her  heavenly  hopes,  she  said,  were  bright. 

But  mortal  life  was  frail. 
And  something,  whispering,  warn'd  her  soul 

That  soon  her  strength  might  fail. 

"  Oh,  Willie  dearest !  ne'er  before 
I've  stay'd  thy  lingering  tread, 
For  well  I  know  'tis  hard  to  take 
The  time  that  earns  our  bread. 


SCOTTISH    WEAVER.  243 

"  But  now  one  single  day  I  ask, 
For  then,  the  weight  that  how'd 
My  spirit  with  its  presage  dire, 
May  prove  an  April  cloud." 

He  stay'd,  to  mark  the  fearful  pang 

That  hath  not  yet  heen  told, 
To  see  the  livid  hues  of  death 

The  rigid  brow  unfold. 

He  stay'd,  to  find  all  help  was  vain, 

Ere  the  next  evening-tide, 
And  then  to  lay  her  in  the  grave, 

Her  new-born  babe  beside. 

Her  new-born  babe  !     With  her  it  died, 

And  in  the  white  shroud's  fold, 
Fast  by  her  marble  breast  'twas  seen, 

A  blossom  crush' d  and  cold. 

Oh  wounded  and  forsaken  man ! 

Whom  mocking  Hope  doth  flee. 
The  lingering  luxury  of  grief 

Is  not  for  such  as  thee. 


244  SCOTTISH   WEAVER. 

Stern  Toil  doth  summon  thee  away, 
And  thou  the  call  must  hear, 

As  the  lone  Arab  strikes  his  tent 
To  roam  the  desert  drear. 

He  closed  the  pleasant  room  where  late 
His  cheerful  hearth  had  burn'd, 

And  to  the  waiting  landlord's  hand 
The  household  key  return' d. 

And  to  a  pitying  neighbour's  door 
His  youngest  nursling  led, 

Too  weak  to  try  the  weary  road 
It  was  his  lot  to  tread, — 

With  earnest  words  bespoke  her  care, 
Which  he  would  well  repay. 

Then  bless'd  the  poor,  unconscious  boy, 
And  sadly  turn'd  aWay. 

With  wondering  eyes,  the  stranger-child 
The  unwonted  scene  survey'd. 

And  to  the  darkest  corner  shrank, 
Bewilder' d  and  afraid. 


SCOTTISH    V.EAVER.  245 

From  thence,  escaping  to  his  home 

With  bosom  swelling  high, 
Uplifted,  as  he  fled  away, 

A  loud  and  bitter  cry ; 

And  wildly  call'd  his  mother's  name, 

And  press'd  the  unyielding  door, 
And  breathless  listen' d  for  the  voice 

That  he  must  hear  no  more. 

And,  then,  the  holy  hymn  she  taught 

He  lisp'd  with  simple  wile, 
As  if  that  talisman  were  sure 

To  win  her  favouring  smile. 

But  when  all  efforts  fruitless  proved, 

Exhausted  with  his  moan. 
The  orphan  sobb'd  himself  to  sleep 

Upon  the  threshold-stone. 

Even  passing  travellers  paused  to  mark 

A  boy,  so  young  and  fair. 
Thus  slumbering  on  a  stony  bed 

Amid  the  nipping  air, — 

21* 


246  SCOTTISH  weaver. 

A  boy,  whose  flaxen  curls,  tlic  care 

Of  matron  love  disclose, 
Though  sorrow's  pearl-drops  sprinkled  lay 

Upon  his  checks  of  rose. 

But  onward,  toward  his  lot  of  toil 
With  spirit  bow'd  and  bent, 

Wee  Willie  walking  by  his  side, 
The  widow' d  father  went. 

Silent  they  journey' d,  hand  in  hand, 
While  from  its  cloud-wrapp'd  head 

A  shower  of  chill  and  drizzling  mist 
The  bleak  Benachie  shed. 

Then,  from  the  beaten  track  they  turn'd 

A  broken  path  to  wind, 
The  lonely  spot  where  Bessie  dwelt. 

In  a  far  glen  to  find. 

They  wander' d  long  o'er  strath  and  brae, 
While  blasts  autumnal  sweep. 

Before  their  own  poor  girl  they  spied 
Tending  her  snowy  sheep. 


SCOTTISH    WEAVER.  247 

Up  toward  the  mountain  side  she  gazed, 

Intent,  yet  sad  of  cheer, 
Expecting  still,  from  hour  to  hour, 

To  greet  her  mother  dear. 

Alas!  this  was  the  appointed  day 

On  which  that  tender  friend 
Had  promised  with  her  loving  child 

A  little  time  to  spend. 

Warm  stockings,  that  her  hand  would  knit 

From  fleecy  wool,  to  bring ; 
Perchance,  a  broader  plaid,  to  shield 

From  coming  winter's  sting. 

As  bounds  the  glad  and  nimble  deer, 
She  flew,  their  steps  to  meet ; 
**  Father. !  and  Willie  !  welcome  here  ! 
But  Where's  my  mother  sweet  ?" 

"  Speak  to  her,  Willie  !     Kiss  her  cheek ! 
That  grows  so  pale  and  whit6 ; 
Fain  would  I  turn  away  awhile, 
I  cannot  bear  the  sight. 


248  SCOTTISH    WEAVER. 

"  0  sol)  not  so,  my  precious  son  1 
Speak  kindly  words,  and  say 
Why  your  lost  mother  does  not  come, 
And  how  she  sleeps  in  clay." 

So,  clasp' d  within  each  other's  arms, 

Upon  the  heather  dry, 
Beside  a  clear  and  rippling  brook 

That  crept  unheeded  by, 

They  told  their  tale  of  wo,  and  found 

In  sympathy  relief; 
But  he,  the  deeper  mourner,  sank, 

In  solitary  grief. 

And  nought  escaped  his  utterance  there, 
While  kneeling  on  the  sod. 

Save  her  loved  name,  his  poor  lost  wife, 
And  broken  cries  to  God. 

Nor  long  the  kindred  tear  to  pour 
That  smitten  group  might  stay, 

For  meagre  Want  with  tyi-ant  frown 
Were  beckoning  them  away. 


SCOTTISH  WEAVER.  249 

"Oh,  put  your  trust  in  God,  my  child," 
The  parting  father  said, 
Then  kiss'd  his  daughter's  trembling  lips, 
And  on  his  journey  sped. 

And  sometimes,  when  her  task  bore  hard, 
It  seem'd  a  mother's  sigh, 
"Oh,  put  your  trust  in  God,  my  child," 
Came  breathing  from  the  sky. 

Oh  ye,  who  see  the  suffering  poor 

With  countless  ills  opprest. 
Yet  on  in  lordly  chariots  roll. 

Nor  heed  their  sad  request ; — 

Who  mark  the  unrequited  toil 

That  with  its  mountain  weight 
Doth  crush  them  hopeless  to  the  dust, 

Yet  leave  them  to  their  fate ; 

Think  of  the  hour,  when  forth,  like  theirs, 

Your  uncloth'd  soul  must  fleet. 
Its  last  and  dread  account  to  bide 

Before  the  Judge's  seat. 


250  SCOTTISH    WEAVER. 

And  if  to  feed  tlie  hungering  poor, 
And  be  the  orphan's  stay, 

Shall  be  remember'd  mid  the  ire 
Of  that  terrific  day. 

Haste !  ope  the  hand  to  mercy's  deed, 
The  heart  to  sorrow's  prayer, 

And  bid  your  lovdj  brother  plead 
For  your  forgiveness  there. 


NOTE. 

"Strange  to  say,  on  first  becoming  aware  of  the  bereavements  of  that  terrible  night, 
[  sate  for  some  minutes  gazing  upward  at  the  fluttering  and  wheeling  movements  of  a 
partj'  of  swallows,  our  fellow-loagers,  that  had  been  disturbed  by  our  \inearthly  outcry."— 
Recollections  of  a  Hand-loom  Weaver. 

This  poem  is  almost  a  literal  version  of  circumstances  related  in  a  book,  with  the  above 
title,  published  in  England  recently,  and  written  by  William  Thom,  a  Scotch  weaver  and 
poet.  "  Its  object,"  says  the  author,  '•  is  to  impart  to  one  portion  of  the  community  ghmpses 
of  what  is  going"  on  in  another." 

In  our  own  happy  land,  the  labouring  poor  have  no  idea  of  the  distress  which  he  thus 
simply  yet  forcibly  depicts.  It  occurred  soon  after  six  thousand  looms  were  stopped  in  the 
region  of  Dundee,  and  just  before  William  Thom,  with  his  wife  and  four  little  ones,  left  their 
home  at  Newlyte,  in  search  of  the  means  of  subsistence  at  luverary,  as  related  in  the  pre- 
ceding stanzas. 

"  It  had  been  a  stiff  winter  and  an  unkindly  spring ;  but  I  will  not  expatiate  on  six  human 
lives  maintained  on  five  shillings  weekly,  on  babies  prematurely  thoughtful,  on  comely 
faces  withering,  on  desponding  youth,  and  too  quickly  declining  age.  I  will  describe  one 
morning  of  modified  starvation  at  Newlyte,  and  then  pass  on. 

"  Imagine  a  cold,  dreary  forenoon.  It  is  eleven  o'clock,  but  our  little  dwelling  shows  none 
of  the  signs  of  that  time  of  day.  The  four  children  are  still  asleep.  There  is  a  bed-cover 
hung  before  the  window,  to  keep  all  within  as  much  like  night  as  possible.  The  mother  sits 
beside  the  bed  of  her  children,  to  lull  them  back  to  sleep,  when  either  shall  show  any  in- 
clination to  wake.  For  this  there  is  a  cause.  Our  weekly  five  shillings  have  not  come  as  was 
expected,  and  the  only  food  in  the  house  consists  of  a  handful  of  oatmeal  saved  from  the 
supper  of  last  night.  Our  fuel  is  also  exhausted.  My  wife  and  I  wore  conversing  in  sunken 
whispers  about  making  an  attempt  to  cook  the  handful  of  meal,  when  the  youngest  chUd 
awoke,  beyond  the  mother's  power  to  h  ush  it  again  to  sleep.  It  finally  broke  out  into  a  steady 
scream,  which,  of  course,  rendered  it  impossible  to  keep  the  rest  in  a  state  of  unconsciousness. 
Face  after  face  sprang  up,  each  little  one  exclaiming,  '0  mother!  mother!  give  me  a  piece.' 

How  weak  a  word  is  sorrow,  to  ai;i>ly  to  the  feelings  r.f  myself  and  my  wife  on  that  dreary  day!" 

260 


THE  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

When  was  the  red  man's  summer  ? 

When  the  rose 
Hung  its  first  banner  out  ?     When  the  gray  rock, 
Or  the  brown  heath,  the  radiant  kalmia  clothed? 
Or  when  the  loiterer  by  the  reedy  brooks 
Started  to  see  the  proud  lobelia  glow 
Like  living  flame  ?     When  through  the  forest  gleam'd 
The  rhododendron  ?  or  the  fragrant  breath 
Of  the  magnolia  swept  deliciously 
O'er  the  half  laden  nerve  ? 

No.    When  the  groves 
In  fleeting  colours  wrote  their  own  decay, 
And  leaves  fell  eddying  on  the  sharpen'd  blast 
That  sang  their  dirge ;  when  o'er  their  rustling  bed 
The  red  deer  sprang,  or  fled  the  shrill-voiced  quail, 
Heavy  of  wing  and  fearful ;  when,  with  heart 
Foreboding  or  depress'd,  the  white  man  mark'd 
The  signs  of  coming  winter ;  then  began 

251 


252  INDIAN    SUMMER. 

The  Indian's  joyous  season.*     Then  the  haze, 

Soft  and  illusive  as  a  fairy  dream, 

Lapp'd  all  the  landscape  in  its  silvery  fold. 

The  quiet  rivers,  that  were  wont  to  hide 

'Neath  shelving  banks,  beheld  their  course  betray' d 

By  the  white  mist  that  o'er  their  foreheads  crept. 

While  wrapp'd  in  morning  dreams,  the  sea  and  sky 

Slept  'neath  one  curtain,  as  if  both  were  merged 

In  the  same  element.     Slowly  the  sun, 

And  all  reluctantly,  the  spell  dissolved, 

And  then  it  took  upon  its  parting  wing 

A  rainbow  glory. 

Gorgeous  was  the  time, 
Yet  brief  as  gorgeous.     Beautiful  to  thee, 
Our  brother  hunter,  but  to  us  replete 
With  musing  thoughts  in  melancholy  train. 
Our  joys,  alas  !  too  oft  were  wo  to  thee. 
Yet  ah,  poor  Indian !  whom  we  fain  would  drive 
Both  from  our  hearts,  and  from  thy  father's  lands, 
The  perfect  year  doth  bear  thee  on  its  crown. 
And  when  we  would  forget,  repeat  thy  name. 


*  An  aged  chief  said  to  our  ancestors,  "  The  •white  man's  summer  is  past  and  gone, 
but  that  of  the  Indian  begins  when  the  leaves  fall." 


THE  HEEMIT  OF  THE  FALLS. 


It  was  the  leafy  month  of  June, 
And  joyous  Nature,  all  in  tune. 

With  wreathing  buds  was  drest. 
As  toward  Niagara's  fearful  side 

A  youthful  stranger  prest. 
His  ruddy  cheek  was  blanch' d  with  awe, 
And  scarce  he  seem'd  his  breath  to  draw. 

While,  bending  o'er  its  brim, 
He  mark'd  its  strong,  unfathom'd  tide. 

And  heard  its  thunder-hymn. 

His  measured  week  too  quickly  fled. 
Another,  and  another  sped, 
And  soon  the  summer  rose  decay' d. 
The  moon  of  autumn  sank  in  shade. 
Years  fill'd  their  circle  brief  and  fair. 
Yet  still  the  enthusiast  linger' d  there. 


253 


254  IIEIIMIT    OF    THE    FALLS. 

Till  Avintcr  hurl'd  its  dart; 
For  deeply  round  Lis  soul  ^vas  ^vove 
A  mystic  cliuin  of  quenchless  love, 

That  ^YOuld  not  let  him  part. 
When  darkest  midnight  veil'd  the  sky, 
You'd  hear  his  hasting  step  go  by. 
To  gain  the  bridge  beside  the  deep. 
That  thread-like  o'er  the  surge 
Shot,  where  the  wildest  torrents  leap, 

And  there,  upon  its  awful  verge. 
His  vigil  lone  to  keep. 

And  when  the  moon,  descending  low, 
Hung  on  the  flood  that  gleaming  bow. 
Which  it  would  seem  some  angel's  hand 
With  heaven's  own  pencil  tinged  and  spann'd, 
Pure  symbol  of  a  better  land. 
He,  kneeling,  poured  in  utterance  free 
The  eloquence  of  ecstasy ; 
Though  to  his  words  no  answer  came, 
Save  that  One,  Everlasting  Name, 
Which,  since  Creation's  morning  broke, 
Niagara's  lip  alone  hath  spoke. 

When  wintry  tempests  shook  the  sky, 
And  the  rent  pine-tree  hurtled  by. 


HERMIT    OF    THE    FALLS.  25; 

Unblencliing  mid  the  storm  lie  stood, 
And  mark'd  sublime  the  wrathful  flood, 
While  wrought  the  frost-king  fierce  and  drear, 
His  palace  mid  those  cliffs  to  rear, 
And  strike  the  massy  buttress  strong, 
And  pile  his  sleet  the  rocks  among. 
And  wasteful  deck  the  branches  bare 
With  icj  diamonds,  rich  and  rare. 

Nor  lack'd  the  hermit's  humble  shed 

Such  comforts  as  our  natures  ask 

To  fit  them  for  their  daily  task, — 
The  cheering  fire,  the  peaceful  bed, 
The  simple  meal  in  season  spread: 
While  by  the  lone  lamp's  trembling  light, 
As  blazed  the  hearth-stone  clear  and  bright, 

O'er  Homer's  page  he  hung. 
Or  Maro's  martial  numbers  scann'd, 
For  classic  lore  of  many  a  land 

Flow'd  smoothly  o'er  his  tongue. 
Oft,  with  rapt  eye  and  skill  profound, 
He  woke  the  entrancing  viol's  sound. 

Or  touch' d  the  sweet  guitar. 
For  heavenly  music  deign'd  to  dwell 
An  inmate  in  his.  cloister' d  cell. 

As  beams  the  solemn  star 


256  HERMIT    OF   THE    FALLS. 

All  nii>;lit,  witli  meditative  eyes, 

Where  some  lone  rock-bouiul  fountain  lies. 

As  through  the  groves  with  quiet  tread, 

On  his  accustom' d  haunts  he  sped, 

The  mother-thrush,  un startled,  sung 

Iler  descant  to  her  callow  young. 

And  fearless  o'er  his  threshold  prest 

The  wanderer  from  the  sparrow's  nest ; 

The  squirrel  raised  a  sparkling  eye, 

Nor  from  his  kernel  cared  to  fly 

As  pass'd  that  gentle  hermit  by ; 

No  timid  creature  shrank  to  meet 

His  pensive  glance,  serenely  sweet ; 

From  his  own  kind,  alone,  he  sought 

The  screen  of  solitary  thought. 

Whether  the  world  too  harshly  prest 

Its  iron  o'er  a  yielding  breast. 

Or  taught  his  morbid  youth  to  prove 

The  pang  of  unrequited  love. 

We  know  not,  for  he  never  said 

Aught  of  the  life  that  erst  he  led. 

On  Iris  isle,  a  summer  bower 
He  twined  with  branch,  and  vine,  and  flower, 
And  there  he  mused,  on  rustic  seat, 
Unconscious  of  the  noonday  heat. 


HERMIT    OF    THE    FALLS. 

Or  'ncatli  the  crystal  waters  lay, 
Luxuriant,  in  the  swimmer's  play. 
Yet  once,  the  whelming  flood  grew  strong, 
And  bore  him  like  a  weed  along, 
Though,  with  convulsive  throes  of  pain 
And  heaving  breast,  he  strove  in  vain ; 
Then  sinking  'neath  the  infuriate  tide, 
Lone  as  he  lived,  the  hermit  died. 

On,  by  the  rushing  current  swept, 
The  lifeless  corse  its  voyage  kept. 
To  where,  in  narrow  gorge  comprest, 
The  whirling  eddies  never  rest, 
But  boil  with  wild  tumultuous  sway, 
The  maelstrom  of  Niagara. 
And  there,  within  that  rocky  bound, 
In  swift  gyrations  round  and  round, 

Mysterious  course  it  held; 
Now  springing  from  the  torrent  hoarse. 
Now  battling  as  with  maniac  force, 

To  mortal  strife  compell'd. 

Right  fearful  'neath  the  moonbeam  bright, 
It  was  to  see  that  brow  so  white. 

And  mark  the  ghastly  dead 
Leap  upward  from  his  torture-bed, 


HERMIT    OF   THE    FALLS. 

As  if  in  passion-gust, 
And  tossing  wild  with  agony, 
To  mock  the  omnipotent  decree 

Of  dust  to  dust. 

At  length,  where  smoother  waters  flow, 
Emerging  from  the  gulf  below. 
The  hapless  youth  they  gain'd,  and  bore 
Sad  to  his  own  forsaken  door. 
There  watch' d  his  dog  with  straining  eye, 
And  scarce  would  let  the  train  pass  by, 

Save  that,  with  instinct's  rushing  spell, 
Through  the  changed  cheek's  empurpled  hue, 
And  stiff  and  stony  form,  he  knew 

The  master  he  kad  loved  so  well. 

The  kitten  fair,  whose  graceful  wile 
So  oft  had  won  his  musing  smile, 
As  at  his  foot  she  held  her  play, 
Stretch' d  on  his  vacant  pillow  lay. 
While  strew' d  around,  on  board  and  chair, 

The  last  pluck' d  flower,  the  book  last  read, 

The  ready  pen,  the  page  outspread, 
The  water-cruse,  the  unbroken  bread, 

Reveal' d  how  sudden  was  the  snare 
That  swept  him  to  the  dead. 


HERMIT    OF   THE    FALLS.  259^ 

And  so  lie  rests  in  forei2;n  e<arth, 
Who  drew  mid  Albion's  vales  his  birth ; 
Yet  let  no  cjnic  phrase  unkind 
Condemn  that  youth  of  gentle  mind, 
Of  shrinking  nerve  and  lonely  heart, 
And  letter' d  lore  and  tuneful  art. 

Who  here  his  humble  worship  paid, 
In  that  most  glorious  temple-shrine, 
Where  to  the  Majesty  divine 

Nature  her  noblest  altar  made. 

No,  blame  him  not,  but  praise  the  Power 
Who  in  the  dear,  domestic  bower. 
Hath  given  you  firmer  strength  to  rear 
The  plants  of  love  with  toil  and  fear, 
The  beam  to  meet,  the  blast  to  dare. 
And  like  a  faithful  soldier  bear. 
Still  with  sad  heart  his  requiem  pour, 
Amid  the  cataract's  ceaseless  roar. 
Nor  grudge  one  tear  of  pitying  gloom 
To  dew  that  sad  enthusiast's  tomb. 


ERIN'S  DAUGHTER. 

Poor  Erin's  daughter  cross'd  the  main 

In  youth's  unfolding  prime, 
A  lot  of  servitude  to  bear 

In  this  our  western  clime. 

And  when  the  drear  heart-sickness  came 

Beneath  a  stranger  sky, 
Tears  on  her  nightly  pillow  lay. 

But  morning  saw  them  dry. 

For  still  with  earnest  hope  she  strove 

Her  distant  home  to  cheer. 
And  from  her  parents  lift  the  load 

Of  poverty  severe. 

To  them  with  liberal  hand  she  sent 
Her  all — her  hard-earn' d  store — 

A  rapture  thrilling  through  her  soul, 
She  ne'er  had  felt  before. 


ERIN  S    DAUGHTER. 

E'en  mid  her  quiet  slumbers  gleam'd 

A  cabin's  lighted  pane, 
A  board  with  simple  plenty  crown'd, 

A  loved  and  loving  train. 

And  so  her  life  of  earnest  toil 

With  secret  joy  was  blest, 
For  the  sweet  warmth  of  filial  love 

Made  sunshine  in  her  breast. 

But  bitter  tidings  o'er  the  wave 

With  fearful  echo  sped ; 
Gaunt  famine  o'er  her  home  had  strode, 

And  all  were  with  the  dead  ! 

All  gone  ! — her  brothers  in  their  glee, 

Her  sisters  young  and  fair ; 
And  Erin's  daughter  bow'd  her  down 

In  desolate  despair. 


261 


THE  HOLY  DEAD. 


*  Wherefore  I  praised  the  dead  who  are  already  dead  more  than  the  living  who  axe 

yet  alive."— Solomon. 


They  dread  no  storm  that  lowers, 

No  perish'd  joys  bewail; 
They  pluck  no  thorn-clad  flowers, 

Nor  drink  of  streams  that  fail : 
There  is  no  tear-drop  in  their  eye, 

No  change  upon  their  brow; 
Their  placid  bosom  heaves  no  sigh 

Though  all  earth's  idols  bow. 

Who  are  so  greatly  blest  ? 

From  whom  hath  sorrow  fled  ? 
Who  share  such  deep,  unbroken  rest 

Where  all  things  toil  ?     The  dead  ! 
The  holy  dead.     Why  weep  ye  so 

Above  yon  sable  bier  ? 
Thrice  blessed  !  they  have  done  with  wo, 

The  living  claim  the  tear. 


THE    HOLY   DEAD.  263 

Go  to  their  sleeping  bowers, 

Deck  their  low  couch  of  clay 
With  earliest  spring's  soft  breathing  flowers ; 

And  when  they  fade  away, 
Think  of  the  amaranthine  wreath, 

The  garlands  never  dim. 
And  tell  me  why  thou  fly'st  from  death, 

Or  hid'st  thy  friends  from  him. 

We  dream,  but  they  awake ; 

Dread  visions  mar  our  rest ; 
Through  thorns  and  snares  our  way  we  take, 

And  yet  we  mourn  the  blest ! 
For  spirits  round  the  Eternal  Throne 

How  vain  the  tears  we  shed ! 
They  are  the  living,  they  alone, 

Whom  thus  we  call  the  dead. 


DEW-DROPS. 

"Father,  there  are  no  dew-drops  on  my  rose; 
I  thought  to  find  them,  but  they  all  are  gone. 
Was  night  a  niggard  ?     Or  did  envious  dawn 
Steal  those  bright  diamonds  from  unwaken'd  day  T* 

The  father  answer' d  not,  but  pointed  where 
The  sudden  falling  of  a  summer  shower 
Made  quiet  music  mid  the  quivering  leaves, 
And  through  the  hollows  of  the  freshen' d  turf 
Drew  lines  like  silver.     Then  a  bow  sprang  forth 
Spanning  the  skies. 

"  See'st  thou  yon  glorious  hues, 
Violet  and  gold  ?     The  dew-drops  glitter  there, 
That  from  the  bosom  of  thy  rose  had  fled. 
My  precious  child.     Read  thou  their  lesson  well, 
That  what  is  pure  and  beautiful  on  earth 
Shall  smile  in  heaven." 

He  knew  not  that  he  spake 


DEW-DROPS.  2G. 


Prophetic  words.     But  ere  the  infant  moon 
Swell'd  to  a  perfect  orb  her  crescent  pale, 
That  loving  soul,  which  on  the  parent's  breast 
Had  sparkled  as  a  dew-drop,  was  exhaled, 
To  mingle  mid  the  brightness  of  the  skies. 


THE  LITTLE  FOOTSTEP. 

I  SAW  a  tiny  footstep  in  the  snow, 
Beside  a  cottage  door. 

So  slight  it  was, 
And  fairy-like,  methought  it  scarce  belong'd 
To  our  terrestrial  race.     With  zigzag  course, 
On  the  white  element  it  left  a  trace. 
While  here  and  there,  the  likeness  of  a  hand, 
Each  baby-finger  like  a  spider's  claw 
Outspread  to  clutch,  reveal' d  some  morsel  cold, 
Snatch'd,  and  by  stealth  to  the  red  lip  conveyed. 
— Didst  think  'twas  sugar,  child?  and  this  round  world 
All  one  huge,  frosted  cake? 

Others  have  made 
Mistakes  as  strange,  e'en  though  their  locks  were  gray. 

So  musing  on  I  went,  until  the  track 
Of  that  small  creature  Avas  abruptly  stay'd. 
While  trampling  parallel,  broad,  heavy  feet, 

2C6 


THE   LITTLE   FOOTSTEP.  2G7 

In  backward  lines,  their  giant  impress  made, 
Quite  to  the  cottage-gate. 

Some  pirate,  sure, 
Had  captured  the  poor  traveller,  in  the  bud 
And  blossom  of  its  jojous  enterprise. 
And,  nolens  volens,  bore  it  home  again. 
Moreover,  in  the  note-book  of  the  snow 
I  read  this  capture  was  against  its  will, 
For  at  the  juncture  of  those  differing  feet, 
Marks  of  a  passion-struggle  plainly  told 
A  differing  purpose;  and  I  seem'd  to  hear 
The  angry  shriek  of  the  indignant  child 
Intent  on  freedom,  and  the  smother'd  wail 
With  which,  at  length,  it  yielded  to  the  force 
Of  nurse  or  servant, — and  to  nursery  drear, 

Perchance  to  darken'd  closet,  for  its  fault 

Was  borne  appall' d. 

So,  o'er  the  race  of  time, 

Young  fancy  starts,  unbridled,  unarray'd. 

Undisciplined,  until  stern  Reason's  grasp 

Arrests  the  fugitive.     Anon,  the  cares. 

And  toils,  and  tyrannies  of  time,  dispel 

Its  frost-work  fabrics.     So,  with  pinion'd  wing 

And  fallen  crest,  it  yieldeth  to  their  will. 

Bearing  "suhjugum''  on  its  tattoo'd  brow 

Like  some  New  Zealand  chief. 


268  THE    LITTLE   FOOTSTEP. 

A  lesson  strong, 
Yet  needful,  thou  hast  in  thj  memory  stored 
This  day,  sad  infant. 

Liberty's  excess 
Is  pruned  within  thee,  and  henceforth  must  know 
Curb  and  restraint,  till,  like  La  Plata's  steed, 
It  heed  the  lasso  well. 

Thus,  may  we  gain. 
We,  older  scholars  in  life's  school  austere, 
From  all  its  discipline  a  will  subdued, 
And,  when  its  hour-glass  closes,  find  at  last 
A  Father's  house,  like  thee. 


SCOTLAND'S  FAMINE. 

There's  weeping  mid  the  lonely  sea 
Where  the  rude  Hebrids  lie, 

And  where  the  misty  Highlands  point 
Their  foreheads  to  the  sky. 

The  oats  were  blighted  on  the  stalk, 

The  corn  before  its  bloom, 
And  many  a  hand  that  held  the  plough 

Is  pulseless  in  the  tomb. 

There  is  no  playing  in  the  streets. 

The  haggard  children  move 
Like  mournful  phantoms,  mute  and  slow, 

Uncheer'd  by  hope  or  love. 

No  dog  upon  his  master  fawns, 
No  sheep  the  hillocks  throng, 

Not  e'en  the  playmate  kitten  sports 
The  sad-eyed  babes  among. 


270  Scotland's  famine. 

No  more  the  cock  his  clarion  sounds, 
Nor  brooding  wing  is  spread ; 

There  is  no  food  in  barn  or  stall, 
The  household  birds  are  dead. 

From  the  young  maiden's  hollow  cheek 
The  ruddy  blush  is  gone, 

The  peasant  like  a  statue  stands, 
And  hardens  into  stone. 

The  shuttle  sleepeth  in  the  loom. 
The  crook  upon  the  walls, 

And  from  the  languid  mother's  hand 
The  long-used  distaff  falls. 

She  hears  her  children  ask  for  bread, 
And  what  can  she  bestow  ? 

She  sees  their  uncomplaining  sire 
A  mournful  shadow  grow. 

Oh  Scotia !     Sister  !  if  thy  woes 

Awake  no  pitying  care, 
If  long  at  banquet-board  we  sit 

Nor  heed  thy  deep  despair,— 


SCOTLAND'S    FAMINE.  271 

While  thou  art  pining  unto  death, 

Amid  thy  heather  brown, 
Wilt  not  the  Giver  of  our  jojs 

Upon  our  luxuries  frown  ? 

And  blast  the  blossom  of  our  pride. 

And  ban  the  rusted  gold, 
And  turn  the  morsel  into  gall 

That  we  from  thee  withhold? 


FALLS  OF  THE  YANTIC. 

Hills,  rocks,  and  waters !  here  ye  lie, 
And  o'er  ye  spreads  the  same  blue  sky, 

As  when,  in  early  days. 
My  childish  foot  your  cliffs  essay' d. 
My  wondering  eye  your  depth  survey' d. 

Where  the  vex'd  torrent  stays. 

O'er  bolder  scenes  mine  age  hath  stray 'd 
By  floods  that  make  your  light  cascade 

Seem  as  an  infant's  play ; 
Yet  dearer  is  it  still  to  me. 
Than  all  their  boasted  pageantry 

That  charms  the  traveller's  way. 

For  here,  enchanted,  side  by  side. 
With  me  would  many  a  playmate  glid 

When  school-day's  task  was  o'er. 
Who  deem'd  this  world,  from  zone  to  zone. 
Had  nought  of  power  or  wonder  known 

Like  thy  resounding  shore. 

272 


FALLS   OF   THE    \ANT1(J.  273 

Liglit-licarted  group  !  I  see  ye  still, 
For  Memory's  pencil,  at  her  will, 

Dotli  tint  ye  bright  and  rare ; 
Red  lips,  from  whence  glad  laughter  rang. 
Elastic  limbs  that  tireless  sprang, 

And  curls  of  sunny  hair. 

I  will  not  ask  if  change  or  care 

Have  coldly  marr'd  those  features  fair; 

For,  by  myself,  I  know 
We  cannot  till  life's  evening  keep 
The  flowers  that  on  its  dewy  steep 

At  earliest  dawn  did  blow. 

Yet,  lingering  round  this  hallow' d  spot, 
I  call  them,  though  they  answer  not, 

For  some  have  gone  their  way, 
To  sleep  that  sleep  which  none  may  break, 
Until  the  resurrection  wake 

The  prisoners  from  their  clay. 

But  thou,  most  fair  and  fitful  stream. 
First  prompter  of  my  musing  dream. 

Still  lovingly  dost  smile. 
And,  heedless  of  the  conflict  hoarse 
With  the  rude  rocks  that  bar  thy  course, 

My  lonely  walk  beguile. 


274  FALLS   OF   THE    YAXTIC. 

Still  thou  art  changed,  my  favourite  scene ! 
For  man  hath  stolen  thy  cliflfs  between, 

And  torn  thy  grassy  sod ; 
And  bade  the  intrusive  mill-wheel  dash, 
And  many  a  ponderous  engine  crash, 

"Where  Nature  dream' d  of  God. 

Yet  to  the  spot  where  first  we  drew 

Our  breath,  we  turn  unchanged  and  true. 

As  to  a  nurse's  breast ; 
And  count  it,  e'en  till  hoary  age, 
The  Mecca  of  our  pilgrimage, 

Of  all  the  earth  most  blest. 

And  so,  thou  cataract,  strangely  wild, 
My  own  loved  Yantic's  wayward  child, 

That  still  dost  foam  and  start ; 
Though  slight  thou  art,  I  love  thee  w^ell, 
And,  pleased,  the  lay  thy  praise  doth  tell, 

"Which  gushes  from  the  heart. 


STRATFOKD  UPON  AVON. 

What  nurtured  Shakspeare  mid  these  village-shades, 
Making  a  poor  deer-stalking  lad  a  king 
In  the  broad  realm  of  mind  ? 

I  question'd  much 
Whatever  met  my  view, — the  holly-hedge, 
The  cottage-rose,  the  roof  where  he  was  born, 
And  the  pleach' d  avenue  of  limes  that  led 
To  the  old  church.     And,  pausing  there,  I  mark'd 
The  mossy  efflorescence  on  the  stones, 
Which,  kindling  in  the  sunbeam,  taught  me  how 
Its  little  seeds  were  fed  by  mouldering  life, 
And  how  another  race  of  tiny  roots, 
The  fathers  of  the  future,  should  compel 
From  hardest-hearted  rocks  a  nutriment. 
Until  the  fern-plant  and  the  ivy  sere 
Made  ancient  buttress  and  grim  battlement 
Their  nursing-mothers. 

But  again  I  ask'd, 
"  What  nurtured  Shakspeare  ?"     The  rejoicing  birds 


276  STRATFORD-UPON-AVON. 

Wove  a  wild  song,  whose  burden  seem'd  to  be, 
He  was  their  pupil  when  he  chose,  and  knew 
Their  secret  maze  of  melody  to  wind. 
Snatching  its  sweetness  for  his  winged  strain 
With  careless  hand. 

The  timid  flowerets  said, 
"He  came  among  us  like  a  sleepless  bee, 
And  all  those  pure  and  rarest  essences, 
Concocted  by  our  union  with  the  skies, 
Which  in  our  cups  or  zones  we  fain  would  hide, 
He  rifled  for  himself  and  bore  away." 

— The  winds  careering  in  their  might  replied, 
"  Upon  our  wings  he  rode,  and  visited 
The  utmost  stars.     We  could  not  shake  him  off. 
E'en  on  the  fleecy  clouds  he  laid  his  hand. 
As  on  a  courser's  mane,  and  made  them  work 
With  all  their  countless  hues  his  vfondrous  will." 

And  then  meek  Avon  raised  a  murmuring  voice, 
What  time  the  Sabbath  chimes  came  pealing  sweet 
Through  the  umbrageous  trees,  and  told  how  oft 
Along  those  banks  he  wander'd,  pacing  slow, 
As  if  to  read  the  depths. 

Ere  I  had  closed 
My  questioning,  the  ready  rain  came  down, 


STRATFOKD-UPON-AVON.  277 

And  every  pearl-drop  as  it  kiss'd  tlie  turf 
Said,  "We  have  been  liis  teachers.     When  we  f(3ll 
Pattering  among  the  vine  leaves,  he  would  list 
Our  lessons  as  a  student,  nor  despise 
Our  simplest  lore." 

And  then  the  bow  burst  forth, 
That  strong  love-token  of  the  Deity 
Unto  a  drowning  world.     Each  prismed  ray 
Had  held  bright  dalliance  with  the  bard,  and  help'd 
To  tint  the  robe  in  which  his  thought  was  wrapp'd 
For  its  first  cradle-sleep. 

Then  twilight  came 
In  her  gray  robe,  and  told  a  tender  tale 
Of  his  low  musings,  while  she  noiseless  drew 
Her  quiet  curtain.     And  the  queenly  moon, 
Riding  in  state  upon  her  silver  car, 
Confess'd  she  saw  him  oft,  through  checkering  shades, 
Hour  after  hour,  with  Fancy  by  his  side, 
Linking  their  young  imaginings,  like  chains 
Of  pearl  and  diamond. 

Last,  the  lowly  grave- 
Shakspeare's  own  grave — sent  forth  a  hollow  tone, 
"  The  heart  within  my  casket  read  itself^ 
And  from  that  inward  wisdom  learn'd  to  scan 
The  hearts  of  other  men.     It  ponder'd  long 
Amid  those  hermit  cells  where  thought  is  born, 

24 


278  STRATFORD-UPON-AVON. 

Explored  the  roots  of  passion,  and  the  founts 

Of  sympathy,  and  at  each  seal'd  recess 

Knock'd,  until  mystery  fled.     Hence  her  loved  bard 

Nature  doth  crown  with  flowers  of  every  hue 

And  every  season ;  and  the  human  soul, 

Owning  his  powder,  shall  at  his  magic  touch 

Shudder,  or  thrill,  while  age  on  age  expires." 


MIDNIGHT  THOUGHTS  AT  SEA. 


Borne  upon  the  ocean's  foam, 
Far  from  native  land  and  home, 
Midnight's  curtain,  dense  with  wrath, 
Brooding  o'er  our  venturous  path. 
While  the  mountain  wave  is  rolling. 
And  the  ship's  bell  faintly  tolling: 
Saviour  !  on  the  boisterous  sea, 
Bid  us  rest  secure  in  Thee. 

Blast  and  surge,  conflicting  hoarse, 
Sweep  us  on  with  headlong  force ; 
And  the  bark,  which  tempests  urge. 
Moans  and  trembles  at  their  scourge : 
Yet,  should  wildest  tempests  swell, 
Be  thou  near,  and  all  is  well. 
Saviour  !  on  the  stormy  sea, 
Let  us  find  repose  in  Thee. 

279 


280  MIDNIGHT   THOUGHTS   AT    SEA. 

Hearts  there  are  witli  love  that  burn 
When  to  us  afar  they  turn ; 
Eyes  that  show  the  rushing  tear 
If  our  utter'd  names  they  hear: 
Saviour  !  o'er  the  faithless  main, 
Bring  us  to  those  homes  again, 
"    As  the  trembler,  touch' d  by  Thee, 
Safely  trod  the  treacherous  sea. 

Wrecks  are  darkly  spread  below, 
Where  with  lonely  keel  we  go ; 
Gentle  brows  and  bosoms  brave 
Those  abysses  richly  pave : 
If  beneath  the  briny  deep 
We,  with  them,  should  coldly  sleep, 
Saviour  !  o'er  the  whelming  sea. 
Take  our  ransom' d  souls  to  Thee. 


THE  TRIAL  OF  THE  DEAD. 


The  solemn  mockery  of  the  trial  of  the  dead,  which  was  first  permitted  in  Scotland 
about  the  fourteenth  century,  was  exhibited  in  the  case  of  George  Gordon,  Earl  of 
Huntley,  in  the  year  1G64.  After  this  judicial  process,  the  body  was  removed  from  Holy- 
rood,  and  interred  at  Elgin  Cathedral,  the  burial-place  of  his  family. 


The  spears  at  Corrichie  were  bright, 
Where,  with  a  stern  command, 

The  Earl  of  Huntley  ranged  his  host 
Upon  their  native  strand. 

From  many  a  Highland  strath  and  glen 
They  at  his  summons  came, 

A  stalwart  band  of  fearless  men, 
Who  counted  war  a  game. 

Then,  from  Edina's  royal  court 
Fierce  Murray  northward  sped, 

And  rush'd  his  envied  foe  to  meet 
In  battle  sharp  and  dread. 

24*  281 


282  TRIAL    OF   THE    DEAD. 

They  met,  they  closed,  they  struggled  sore, 
Like  waves  when  tempests  blow. 

The  slogan-music  high  in  air. 
The  sound  of  groans  below. 

They  broke,  they  wheel' d,  they  charged  again, 
Till  on  the  ensanguined  ground 

The  noble  Gordon  lifeless  lay, 

Transpierced  with  many  a  wound. 

Long  from  her  tower  his  Lady  look'd : 

"I  see  a  dusky  cloud. 
And  there,  behold !  comes  floating  high 

Earl  Huntley's  banner  proud." 

Then,  deep  she  sigh'd,  for  rising  mist 

Involved  her  aching  sight ; 
'Twas  but  an  autumn-bough  that  mock*d 

Her  chieftain's  pennon  bright. 

His  mother  by  the  ingle  sate. 

Her  head  upon  her  knee. 
And  murmur' d  low  in  hollow  tone, 

"He'll  ne'er  come  back  to  thee." 


TRIAL    OF    THE    DEAD.  283 

"  Hist,  Lady,  motlier  !  licar  I  not 

Steed-tramp  and  pibroch-roar  ? 
As  when  the  victor-surf  doth  tread 

Upon  a  rocky  shore?" 

Not  toward  the  loop-hole  raised  her  head 

That  woman  wise  and  hoar. 
But  whisper'd  in  her  troubled  soul, 

"Thy  Lord  returns  no  more  I" 

"A  funeral  march  is  in  my  ear, 

A  scatter'd  host  I  see," 
And,  straining  wild,  her  sunken  eye 

Gazed  out  on  vacancy. 

Back  to  their  homes,  the  Gordon  clan 

Stole  with  despairing  tread. 
While  to  the  vaults  of  Holyrood 

Was  borne  their  chieftain  dead. 

Exulting  foemen  bore  him  there, 

While  lawless  vassals  jeer'd, 
Nor  spared  to  mock  the  haughty  brow 

Whose  living  frown  they  fear'd. 


284  TRIAL    OF   THE    DEAD. 

No  earth  upon  his  corse  they  strew' cl, 

At  no  rich  shrine  inurn'd, 
But  heavenward,  as  the  warrior  fell, 

His  noble  forehead  turn'd. 

Months  fled  ;  and  while,  from  castled  height 

To  cot  in  lowly  dell, 
O'er  Corrichie's  disastrous  day 

The  tears  of  Scotland  fell, 

Behold,  a  high  and  solemn  court 

With  feudal  pomp  was  graced, 
And  at  the  bar,  in  princely  robes, 

A  muffled  chieftain  placed. 

< 
No  glance  his  veiled  face  might  scan, 

Though  throngs  beside  him  prest ; 
The  Gordon  plume  his  brow  adorn' d, 

Its  tartan  wrapp'd  his  breast. 

"  Lord  George  of  Gordon,  Huntley's  earl ! 

High-treason  taints  thy  name ; 
For  God,  and  for  thy  country's  cause, 

Defend  thine  ancient  fame ; 


TRIAL    OF    THE    DEAD.  285 

"  Make  oatli  upon  thine  honour's  seal, 

Heaven's  truth  unblenching  tell !" 
No  lip  he  moved,  no  hand  he  raised, 

And  dire  that  silence  fell. 


No  word  he  spake,  though  thrice  adjured ; 

Then  came  the  sentence  drear: 
"Foul  traitor  to  thy  queen  and  realm. 

Our  laws  denounce  thee  here." 

They  stripped  him  of  his  cloak  of  state, 

They  bared  his  helmed  head, 
Though  the  pale  judges  inly  quaked 

Before  the  ghastly  dead. 

Light  thing  to  him,  that  earthly  doom 

Or  man's  avenging  rod, 
Who,  in  the  land  of  souls,  doth  bide 

The  audit  of  his  God. 

Before  his  face  the  crowd  drew  back, 

As  from  sepulchral  gloom. 
And  sternest  veterans  shrank  to  breathe 

The  vapour  of  the  tomb. 


286  TRIAL    OF   THE    DEAD. 

And  now,  this  mockery  of  the  dead  . 

With  hateful  pageant  o'er, 
They  yield  him  to  his  waiting  friends 

Who  throng  the  palace  door. 

And  on  their  sad  procession  press'd, 

Unresting  day  and  night, 
To  where  mid  Elgin's  towers  they  mark 

The  fair  cathedral's  height. 

And  there,  by  kindred  tears  bedew'd, 
Beneath  its  hallow' d  shade, 

With  midnight  torch  and  chanted  dirge, 
Their  fallen  chief  they  laid, 

Fast  by  king  Duncan's  mouldering  dust, 

Whose  locks  of  silver  hue 
Were  stain 'd,  as  Avon's  swan  hath  sung, 

With  murder's  bloody  dew. 

So,  rest  thou  here,  thou  Scottish  earl 
Of  ancient  fame  and  power. 

No  more  a  valiant  host  to  guide 
In  battle's  stormy  hour. 


TRIAL    OF   THE    DEAD.  287 

Yea,  rest  tliee  lierc,  tliou  Scottish  earl, 

Until  that  day  of  dread, 
Which  to  eternity  consigns 

The  trial  of  the  dead. 


THE  EMIGRANT  MOTHER. 

From  my  own  native  clime,  I  took  my  way 
Across  the  foaming  deep.     My  husband  slept 
In  his  new  grave,  and  poverty  had  stripp'd 
Our  lonely  cottage.     Letters  o'er  the  wave, 
From  brother  and  from  sister,  bade  me  come 
To  this  New  World,  where  there  is  bread  for  all. 
So,  with  my  heavy,  widow' d  heart  I  went. 
My  only  babe  and  I. 

Coarse,  curious  eyes 
Look'd  searchingly  upon  me,  as  I  sat 
In  the  throng' d  steerage,  with  my  sick,  sick  soul. 
But  at  each  jeering  word,  I  bow'd  my  head 
Down  o'er  my  helpless  child,  and  was  content, 
For  he  was  all  my  world. 

Storms  rock'd  the  bark, 
And  haggard  fear  sprang  up,  with  oaths  and  cries. 
Yet  wondrous  courage  nerved  me.     For  to  die 
With  that  fair,  loving  creature  in  my  arms, 
Seem'd  more  than  life  without  him.     If  a  shade     • 

288 


EMIGRANT    MOTHER.  289 

Of  weariness  or  trouble  mark'd  my  brow, 
He  look'd  upon  me  with  his  father's  eyes, 
And  I  was  comforted. 

But  sickness  came. 
Close  air,  and  scanty  food.     Darkly  they  press'd 
On  feeble  infancy,  and  oft  I  heard. 
As  mournful  twilight  settled  o'er  the  sea, 
The  frequent  plunge,  and  the  wild  mother's  shriek, 
When  her  lost  darling  to  the  depths  went  down. 
Then  came  the  terror.     To  my  heaving  breast 
I  closer  clasp' d  the  child,  and  all  my  strength 
Went  forth  in  one  continued  sigh  to  God. 
Scarcely  I  slept,  lest  the  dire  pestilence 
Should  smite  him  unawares.     E'en  when  he  lay 
In  peaceful  dreams,  the  smile  upon  his  cheek, 
I  trembled,  lest  the  dark-wing' d  angel  breathed 
Insidious  whispers,  luring  him  away. 

It  came  at  last.     That  dreadful  sickness  came, 
The  fever — short  and  mortal.     Midnight's  pall 
Spread  o'er  the  waters,  when  his  last  faint  breath 
Moisten'd  my  cheek.     Deep  in  my  breaking  heart 
I  shut  the  mother's  cry. 

One  mighty  fear 
Absorb'd  me,  lest  his  cherish'd  form  should  feed 
The  dire  sea-monsters,  nor  beneath  the  sods 

25 


290  EMIGRANT    MOTHER. 

Of  the  green,  quiet,  blessed  earth,  await 
The  resurrection. 

So,  I  shuddering  press' d 
The  body  closer,  though  its  deadly  cold 
Froze  through  my  soul. 

To  those  around,  I  said, 
"Disturb  him  not — he  sleepeth."     Then  I  sang 
And  rock'd  him  tenderly,  as  though  he  woke 
In  fretfulness,  or  felt  the  sting  of  pain. 
My  poor,  dead  baby  !     Terrible  to  me 
Such  falsehood  seem'd.     But  yet  the  appalling  dread 
Lest  the  fierce,  scaly  monsters  of  the  sea 
Should  wind  around  him  with  their  gorging  jaws, 
O'ermaster'd  me. 

Nights  fled,  and  mornings  dawn'd, 
And  still  my  chill  arms  clasp'd  immovably 
The  shrivelling  form.     They  told  me  he  was  dead. 
And  bade  me  give  my  beautiful  to  them. 
For  burial  in  the  deep.     With  outstretch' d  hands 
They  stood  demanding  him,  until  the  light 
Fled  from  my  swimming  eyes. 

But  when  I  woke 
From  the  long  trance,  that  icy  burden  lay 
No  longer  on  my  bosom.     Pitying  words 
The  captain  spake — "Look  at  yon  little  boat 
Lash'd  to  our  stern.     There,  in  his  coffin,  rests 


EMIGRANT   MOTHER.  291 

Tlie  body  of  thy  son.     If  in  three  days 
We  reacli  the  land,  he  shall  be  buried  there 
As  thou  desirest." 

There,  from  breaking  morn, 
My  eyes  were  fix'd;  and  when  the  darkness  came 
By  the  red  binnacle's  uncertain  light 
I  watch'd  that  floating  speck  amid  the  waves, 
And  pray'd  for  land. 

As  thus  I  kept  my  watch, 
Like  desolate  Eizpah,  mournful  visions  came 
Of  my  forsaken  cottage ;  while  the  spring 
Of  gushing  crystal,  where  'neath  bowering  trees 
We  drew  our  water,  gurgled  in  my  ear 
To  mock  mo  with  its  memories  of  joy. 
My  throat  was  dry  with  anguish,  and  when  voice 
Fail'd  me  to  pray  for  land,  I  lifted  up 
That  silent,  naked  thought,  which  finds  the  Throne 
Sooner  than  pomp  of  words. 

With  fiery  face 
And  eager  foot,  the  third  dread  morning  rose 
Out  of  the  misty  deep,  and  coldly  rang 
The  death-knell  of  my  hope. 

As  o'er  the  stern 
I  gazed  with  dim  eye  on  the  flashing  brine, 
Methought  its  depths  were  open'd,  and  I  saw 
Creatures  most  vile,  that  o'er  the  bottom  crept. 


292  EMIGRANT   MOTHER. 

Lizards  and  slimy  serpents,  hideous  forms 
And  shapes,  for  which  man's  language  hath  no  name ; 
While  to  the  surface  rose  the  monster  shark. 
Intent  to  seize  his  prey. 

Convulsive  shrieks, 
Long  pent  within  my  bleeding  heart,  burst  forth. 
But  from  the  watcher  at  the  mast  there  came 
A  shout  of  ^^Lancll"  and  on  the  horizon's  edge 
Gleam' d  a  faint  streak,  like  the  white  seraph's  wing. 
Oh  !  blessed  land  !     We  near'd  it,  and  my  breath 
Was  one  continued  gasp — Oh!  blessed  land! 

A  boat  was  launch'd.     With  flashing  oar  it  reach'd 
A  lonely  isle.     Bent  o'er  the  vessel's  side, 
I  saw  them  dig  a  narrow  grave,  and  lay 
In  the  cool  bosom  of  the  quiet  earth 
The  little  body  that  was  mine  no  more. 
Nor  wept  I:  for  an  angel  said  to  me, 
*'  God's  will !  God's  will !  and  thy  requited  prayer 
Remember !" 

To  my  hand  a  scroll  they  brought, 
Bearing  the  name  of  that  deserted  strand. 
And  record  of  the  day  in  which  they  laid 
My  treasure  there.     They  might  have  spared  that  toil : 
A  mother's  unforgetful  love  needs  not 
.  Record  or  date. 


EMIGRANT   MOTHER.  293 

The  ship  held  on  her  course 
To  greener  shores.     There  came  an  exile's  pain, 
Beneath  a  foreign  sky. 

Yet  'twere  a  sin 
To  mourn  with  bitterness  the  boy  whose  smile 
Cheers  me  no  more,  since  the  sea  had  him  not, 
Nor  the  sea-monsters. 

Endless  praise  to  Him, 
Who  did  not  scorn  the  poor,  weak  woman's  sigh 
Of  desolate  wo. 

No  monument  is  thine. 
Oh  babe  !  that  'neath  yon  sterile  sands  dost  sleep, 
Save  the  strong  sculpture  in  a  mother's  heart ; 
And  by  those  traces  will  she  know  thee  well 
When  the  graves  open,  and  before  God's  throne 
Both,  small  and  great  are  gather'd. 

25* 


HEALING  AT  SUNSET. 

«  At  even,  when  the  sun  did  set,  they  brought  unto  him  all  that  were  diseased." 
Mark  i.  32. 

Judea's  summer-day  "VN'ent  down, 

And  lo !  from  vale  and  plain, 
Around  the  heavenly  Healer  throng'd 

A  sick  and  sorrowing  train. 

The  pallid  brow,  the  hectic  cheek, 

The  cripple  bent  with  care, 
And  he  whose  soul  dark  demons  lash'd 

To  foaming  rage,  were  there. 

He  raised  his  hand,  the  lame  man  leap'd, 

The  blind  forgot  his  wo. 
And  with  a  startling  rapture  gazed 

On  Nature's  glorious  show. 

Up  from  his  bed  of  misery  rose 

The  paralytic  pale, 
"While  the  loathed  leper  dared  once  more 

His  foPiow-man  to  hail. 


HEALING    AT    SUNSET.  295 

The  lunatic's  illumined  brow, 

With  smiles  of  love  o'erspread, 
Assured  the  kindred  hearts  that  long 

Had  trembled  at  his  tread. 

The  mother  to  her  idiot-boy 

The  name  of  Jesus  taught, 
Who  thus  with  sudden  touch  had  fired 

The  chaos  of  his  thought. 

Yes,  all  that  sad,  imploring  train 

He  heal'd  ere  evening  fell, 
And  speechless  joy  was  born  that  night 

In  many  a  lonely  cell. 

Ere  evening  fell!     Oh  ye,  w^ho  find 

The  chills  of  age  descend, 
And  with  the  lustre  of  your  locks 

The  almond-blossom  blend ; 

Haste,  ere  the  darkening  shades  of  night 

Have  every  hope  bereaved, 
Nor  leave  the  safety  of  the  soul 

Unstudied,  unachieved. 


FILIAL  PIETY  OF  DxiVID. 

Adullam's  sheltering  cavern  bent 

O'er  many  an  exile's  head, 
Who  from  the  tyrant  sway  of  Saul 

In  discontent  had  fled ; 
And  he,  the  leader  of  that  band, 

Came  forth  in  sadden'd  thought, 
And  to  a  foreign  monarch's  court 

His  suit  a  suppliant  brought : 

'^  Oh,  King  of  Moab  !"  bowing  down 
With  trembling  lip  he  said 
Who  oft  to  victory's  crimson  field 
Had  Israel's  thousands  led, 
"  I  pray  thee,  let  mine  aged  sire, 
And  she  beside  whose  knee 
My  earliest,  lisping  prayer  was  Icarn'd, 
In  safety  dwell  with  thee. 


FILIAL    PIETY    OP    DAVID.  297 

"  Lest,  while  the  adverse  torrent's  force 

With  struggling  breast  I  stem, 
Mj  hands  grow  weak,  my  spirits  faint, 

In  anxious  care  for  them ; 
For  with  an  outlaw's  ceaseless  pain, 

I  wander  to  and  fro. 
And  wait  Jehovah's  righteous  will 

More  perfectly  to  know." 

Then  forth  to  Moab's  pitying  prince 

His  aged  sire  he  led. 
The  cavern  dampness  on  the  locks 

That  silver'd  o'er  his  head; 
And,  leaning  on  his  vigorous  arm, 

A  wrinkled  woman  came, 
The  mother  of  the  many  sons 

Who  honour'd  Jesse's  name. 

The  youngest  and  the  dearest  one 

Now  woke  her  parting  tear, 
And  sorrow  shook  his  manly  breast 

That  ne'er  had  quail'd  with  fear ; 
While,  drawing  near  the  monarch's  side, 

In  low  and  earnest  tone 
He  press'd  upon  his  soften'd  heart 

The  treasures  of  his  own. 


298  FILIAL    PIETY    OF    DAVID. 

Low  kneeling  at  his  parent's  side, 

That  blessing  he  besought, 
Vf hich  ever  in  his  childish  years 

Had  calm'd  each  troubled  thought ; 
While  they  with  fond  and  feeble  hand 

His  clustering  curls  among, 
Jehovah's  majesty  and  might 

Invoked  with  faltering  tongue. 

With  tearful  thanks  to  Moab's  king, 

The  exile  left  the  place, 
Eor  filial  duty  well  discharged 

Shed  sunshine  o'er  his  face ; 
And  sweet  as  Vt^hen  on  Bethlehem's  vales 

He  fed  his  fleecy  flock, 
The  dew  of  holy  song  distill'd 

Like  honey  from  the  rock. 

"  God  is  my  light !     Why  should  I  fear, 

Though  earth  be  dark  vrith  shade  ? 
God  is  the  portion  of  my  soul. 

Why  should  I  be  afraid  ? 
Unless  his  arm  had  been  my  stay 

When  snares  were  round  me  spread, 
My  strength  had  fainted  and  gone  down 

To  silence  and  the  dead. 


FILIAL    PIETY    OF    DAVID.  299 

"  Father  and  mother,  dear  and  true 

The  homeless  one  forsake, 
While  like  the  hunted  deer,  mj  course 

From  cliff  to  cliff  I  take. 
Though  kings  against  my  life  conspire, 

And  hosts  in  hate  array'd, 
God  is  the  portion  of  my  soul ; 

Why  should  I  be  afraid  ?" 


THE  IVY. 

Beautiful  plant,  clasping  the  ruin'd  tower 
That  Time  hath  wreck' d,  and  venturing  fearless  up 
Into  the  frosty  sky  !  hast  thou  a  heart 
For  constant  friendship,  that  thou  thus  dost  dare 
Peril,  and  storm,  and  winter's  tyranny, 
With  changeless  brow  ? 

The  lonely  shaft  that  falls 
From  its  high  place,  thou  in  thy  helpful  arms 
Dost  wind  embracing,  its  disjointed  stones 
Knitting  with  thy  strong  root-work,  like  a  mesh 
Of  living  nerves. 

The  brown  and  gnarled  trunk. 
Whose  heart  the  worm  hath  eaten,  thou  dost  deck 
As  for  its  bridal,  hiding  every  seam 
And  wrinkle  with  thy  br older 'd  drapery. 
The  broken  column  mid  the  desert  sands, 
Where  dim  antiquity  hath  dozed  so  long 
That  slow  oblivion  stole  the  date  away 
Which  history  seeks  in  vain,  thou  still  dost  gird 

300 


THE    IVY.  301 

And  clierish  as  a  tender  wife,  who  loves 
Best  wlien  all  else  forsake. 

'Twas  sweet  to  sit 
Beneath  thy  shade,  and  mark  thee  closely  wrap 
The  castellated  domes  of  the  old  world ; 
For  though  Avithm  no  habitants  were  found, 
Save  noisome  bats,  or  the  gray,  boding  owl. 
Uttering  her  nightly  shriek,  yet  thou  untired 
Didst  do  thy  plea&ant  work  of  charity, 
Feeding  the  glad  birds  with  thy  berries  sere, 
That  thickly  nested  mid  thy  niches  green. 
Art  thou  a  Christian,  Ivy, — thus  to  clothe 
The  naked,  and  the  broken  heart  to  bind. 
And  bless  the  old,  and  cheer  the  desolate  ? 
A  teacher  sure  thou  art,  and  shouldst  be  rank'd 
Among  the  few  who  by  example  teach. 
Making  a  text-book  of  their  own  strong  heart 
And  blameless  life. 

And  should  we  linger  here, 
Till  our  props  fall  around  us,  and  each  rose 
Fades  in  our  grasp,  oh !  might  one  friend  remain. 
Fond  and  unchanged  like  thee ;  we  scarce  should  heed 
The  touch  of  wasting  time. 

Yea,  should  some  stone 
Or  funeral  column  chronicle  our  name. 
Stretch  out  thine  arms,  and  wreathe  it,  reaching  forth 


302  THE    IVY. 

Thy  freslily  lustrous  leaf,  and  sliowing  all 
The  young  who  wander  there,  how  to  bo  true 
In  love,  and  pitiful  to  wo,  and  kind 
To  hoary  age,  and  with  unswerving  heart 
Do  good  to  those  who  render  naught  again. 


THE  RAINBOW. 

Mountain  !  that  first  received  tlie  foot  of  man, 
Giving  him  shelter  when  the  shoreless  flood 
That  whelm'd  a  buried  v/orld  went  surging  by, 
I  see  thee  in  thy  lonely  grandeur  rise  ; 
I  see  the  white-hair' d  Patriarch,  as  he  knelt 
Beside  his  earthen  altar  mid  his  sons, 
While  beat  in  praise  the  only  pulse  of  life 
Upon  this  buried  planet. — O'er  the  gorged 
And  furrow' d  soil  swept  forth  a  numerous  train, 
Horned,  or  cloven-footed,  fierce  or  tame, 
While,  mix'd  with  song,  the  sound  of  countless  wings, 
His  rescued  prisoners,  fann'd  the  ambient  air. 

The  sun  drew  near  his  setting,  clothed  in  gold, 
But  on  the  Patriarch,  ere  from  prayer  he  rose, 
A  darkly-cinctured  cloud  chill  tears  had  wept, 
And  rain-drops  lay  upon  his  silver  hairs. 
Then  burst  an  arch  of  wondrous  radiance  forth, 
Spanning  the  vaulted  skies.     Its  mystic  scroll 

303 


304  THE  RAINBOW. 

Proclaim'd  the  amnesty  that  pitying  heaven 
Granted  to  earth,  all  desolate  and  void. 

Oh  signet-ring  !  with  which  the  Almighty  seal'd 
Ilis  treaty  with  the  remnant  of  the  clay 
That  shrank  before  him,  to  remotest  time 
Stamp  wisdom  on  the  souls  that  turn  to  thee. 
Sublime  Instructor  !  who  four  thousand  years 
Hast  ne'er  withheld  thy  lesson,  but  unfurl' d, 
As  shower  and  sunbeam  bade,  thy  glorious  scroll, 
Oft,  mid  the  summer's  day,  I  musing  sit 
At  my  lone  casement,  to  be  taught  of  thee. 
Born  of  the  tear-drop  and  the  smile,  methinks, 
Thou  hast  affinity  with  man,  for  such 
His  elements  and  pilgrimage  below. 
Our  span  of  strength  and  beauty  fades  like  thine, 
Yet  stays  its  fabric  on  eternal  truth 
And  boundless  mercy. 

The  wild  floods  may  come, 
The  everlasting  fountains  burst  their  bounds. 
The  exploring  dove  without  a  leaf  return. 
Yea,  the  fires  glow  that  melt  the  solid  rock. 
And  earth  be  wreck'd:    What  then?  Be  still,  my  soul; 
Enter  thine  ark  ;  God's  promise  cannot  fail ; 
For  surely  as  yon  rainbow  tints  the  cloud. 
His  truth,  thine  Ararat,  will  shelter  thee. 


THE  THRIVING  FAMILY. 

A  SONG. 

Our  father  lives  in  Washington, 

And  has  a  world  of  cares, 
But  gives  his  children  each  a  farm, 

Enough  for  them  and  theirs. 
Full  thirty  well  grown  sons  has  he, 

A  numerous  race  indeed. 
Married  and  settled  all,  d'ye  see, 

With  boys  and  girls  to  feed. 
So  if  we  wisely  till  our  lands, 

We're  sure  to  earn  a  living. 
And  have  a  penny,  too,  to  spare 

For  spending  or  for  giving. 
A  thriving  family  are  we, 

No  lordling  need  deride  us, 
For  we  know  how  to  use  our  hands. 

And  in  our  wits  we  pride  us. 
Hail,  brothers,  hail, 

Let  nought  on  earth  divide  us. 

2C*  305 


THE   THRIVING    FAMILY. 

Some  of  us  dare  the  sharp  north-east ; 

Some,  clover  fields  arc  mowing ; 
And  others  tend  the  cotton  plants 

That  keep  the  looms  a-going ; 
Some  build  and  steer  the  white-wing' d  ships, 

And  few  in  speed  can  mate  them, 
While  others  rear  the  corn  and  wheat, 

Or  grind  the  corn  to  freight  them. 
And  if  our  neighbours  o'er  the  sea 

Have  e'er  an  empty  larder. 
To  send  a  loaf  their  babes  to  cheer 

We'll  work  a  little  harder. 
No  old  nobility  have  we. 

No  tyrant  king  to  ride  us ; 
Our  sages  in  the  Capitol 

Enact  the  laws  that  guide  us. 
Hail,  brothers,  hail. 

Let  nought  on  earth  divide  us. 

Some  faults  wo  have,  wc  can't  deny, 

A  foible  here  and  there ; 
But  other  households  have  the  same, 

And  so  wc  won't  despair. 
'Twill  do  no  good  to  fume  and  frown, 

And  call  hard  names,  you  see, 


THE    THRIVING    FAMILY. 

And  what  a  shame  'twould  be  to  pavt 

So  fine  a  family  ! 
'Tis  but  a  waste  of  time  to  fret, 

Since  Nature  made  us  one, 
For  every  quarrel  cuts  a  thread 

That  healthful  Love  has  spun. 
Then  draw  the  cords  of  union  fast. 

Whatever  may  betide  us, 
And  closer  cling  through  every  blast, 

Eor  many  a  storm  has  tried  us. 
Hail,  brothers,  hail, 

L'et  nought  on  earth  divide  us. 


THE  VICTIM  OF  THE  DEEP. 

Unfathoji'd  main !  who  to  ihj  dark  embrace 
Hast  taken  the  born  of  earth,  the  varied  haunts 
Of  his  young  boyhood's  sport,  the  corn-clad  fields 
Where  erst  he  held  the  plough,  remember  him. 
Home  and  its  many  voices,  vrild  with  grief, 
Reproach  thee  for  his  absence,  and  demand 
Why  he  returns  not. 

For  with  vigorous  step 
He  left  his  cottage-door.     Through  his  young  veins 
The  health-tide  coursed,  and  in  each  compact  limb 
Strength  revell'd.     And  with  such  confiding  joy 
He  turn'd  to  thee,  that  scarce  a  mother's  wo 
Woke  one  brief  tear. 

Who  whispereth  he  is  dead  ? 
Dead  !     And  how  died  he  ? 

Answer  us,  thou  Sea  ! 
No  doubt,  thou  fain  wouldst  hide  the  fearful  tale, 
The  plunge,  the  gasp,  the  agonizing  pang 
With  which  thy  treacherous  policy  was  seal'd. 

308  "» 


THE    VICTIM    OF    THE    DEEP.  309 

What  riglit  hadst  thou,  without  one  sound  of  knell, 
Or  hallow'd  prayer,  or  step  of  funeral  train, 
In  thy  cold-hearted  heathenism  to  take 
Him  on  whose  brow  the  pure  baptismal  dew 
"Was  shed,  which  mark'd  him  of  the  fold  of  Christ  ? 
E'en  now  thou  roll'st  above  him,  with  the  play 
Of  all  thy  crested  waves,  mocking  the  trust 
Which,  from  the  footing  of  the  firm,  green  earth, 
He  drew  to  place  on  thee. 

His  boyish  eye 
Thou  lur'dst  with  pictures  of  the  snowy  sail 
Swelling  in  beauty,  of  the  foreign  port 

Keplete  with  wealth,  and  of  the  glowing  scene 

Of  glad  return.     How  hast  thou  kept  thy  pledge, 

Devouring  main  ? 

Oh  !  break  thy  sullen  pause, 

And  tell  us  how  he  died. 

The  storm  was  high, 

And,  wrapp'd  in  midnight,  mid  the  slippery  shroud 

He  miss'd  his  footing.     Loose  he  swang  and  wide 

Over  the  boiling  surge,  a  single  rope 

Grasping  convulsively,  and  on  the  blast 

Pouring  wild  cries  for  help. 

The  strain' d  ship  lurch' d, 

And  from  the  billows  rose  a  voice  of  prayer 

Unto  redeeming  love.     A  rope  was  cast, 


310  THE    VICTIM    OF    THE    DEEP. 

Yet  he  beheld  it  not ;  a  life-boat  lower'd, 
But  the  shrill  echo  of  his  comrades'  shout 
Sank  'neath  the  tumult  of  the  thunder-blast, 
And  cold  death-silence  settled  where  he  strove 
Briefly,  with  panting  breast. 

Relentless  Sea  ! 
Doth  it  not  grieve  thee,  that  a  broken  heart 
Sinks  heavy  in  a  mother's  breast  for  this? 
Or  that  a  pale-brow' d  maiden  counts  the  hours. 
By  sound  of  dropping  tears  ? 

But  there  shall  come 
A  blast  of  trumpet,  and  thy  startled  depths 
All  the  reft  spoil  of  earth  shall  render  back, 
Atom  by  atom. 

Then  mayst  thou  arise 
In  glorious  beauty,  Sailor-Boy  !  and  meet 
That  Saviour's  smile,  whose  name  was  on  thy  lip 
When  broke  the  last  wave  o'er  thee. 

Mayst  thou  hear 
His  blessed  welcome  to  a  peaceful  home 
Where  there  is  no  more  sea. 


HAROLD  AND  TOSTI. 


Tosti,  a  son  of  Earl  Godwin,  joined  Hardrada,  king  of  Norway,  in  an  invasion  of  Eng- 
land,  his  native  land,  and  fought  against  his  brother  Harold,  the  last  of  the  Saxon 
monarchs,  at  the  hattle  of  Stamford-Bridge,  September  25th,  1066. 


On  England's  shore,  the  pirate  king 

Of  Norway's  frigid  clime, 
From  thrice  a  hundred  beaked  ships, 

Debark' d  his  men  of  crime  ; 
While  at  his  side  the  outlaw  son 

Of  proud  Earl  Godwin  came, 
And  many  a  child  in  terror  shrank 

At  dreaded  Tosti's  name. 

King  Harold  led  a  dauntless  host, 

For  every  loyal  thane, 
Arousing  at  his  country's  call, 

Convoked  a  vassal-train ; 
And  while  green  Autumn  robed  the  vales, 

And  corn  was  waving  high, 
Those  vengeful  armies  frowning  met. 

Where  Derwent  murmur'd  by. 


311 


312  HAROLD    AND   TOSTI. 

But  England's  power,  in  mass  compact, 

Was  ranged  o'er  hill  and  dale, 
Solemn,  and  motionless,  and  dark, 

A  mountain  clothed  in  mail. 
Then  Harold  paused  a  moment's  space, 

Ere  shafts  in  blood  were  dyed, 
And  of  Earl  Edwin  ask'd,  who  rode 

In  armour  by  his  side, — 

"  Who  wears  yon  scarf  of  azure  dye, 

And  helm  of  burnish'd  gold  ?" 
"  Hardrada,  prince  of  Norway's  realm, 

A  warrior  fierce  and  bold." 
"And  who  is  he,  with  towering  head, 

Majestic,  firm,  and  cool, 
Who  casts  around  such  eagle-glance, 

As  he  the  world  would  rule  ?" 

"  The  rebel  of  ^arl  Godwin's  line  ;" 

Yet  spared  the  words  to  speak, 
Thy  brother,  for  he  saw  the  blood 

Forsake  his  sovereign's  cheek ; 
And  though  he  rein'd  his  prancing  steed, 

His  brow  was  pale  as  clay, 
That  brow  which  ne'er  had  blanch' d  before 

In  battle's  deadliest  fray. 


HAROLD    AXD    TOSTI.  313 

Fraternal  memories  o'er  liis  heart 

Like  softening  waters  flow'd, — 
The  mother's  kiss,  the  mother's  prayer, 

Alike  on  both  bestow' d. 
Then  parted  from  his  armed  ranks 

A  knight  of  noble  mien, 
And  waved  a  snowy  flag  of  truce 

Those  frowning  hosts  between. 

"  To  Tosti,  great  Earl  Godwin's  son, 

King  Harold  bids  me  say, 
Why  standst  thou  on  thy  native  soil 

Amid  its  foes  this  day  ? 
I  yield  thee  all  Northumbria's  realm, 

The  choicest  of  my  land ; 
Lay  down  thine  arms,  disperse  thy  host, 

And  clasp  a  brother's  hand." 

But  Tosti  turned  to  Norway's  king : 

"Behold  my  friend,"  said  he  ; 

"What  is  thy  monarch's  boon  for  him 

If  such  his  gifts  to  me?" 
"  Thus  Harold  answer eth  Norway's  lord, 
Troubler  of  earth  and  wave ; 
Just  seven  good  feet  of  English  soil 
I  yield  thee  for  a  grave." 

27 


314  HAROLD    AND    TOSTI. 

Then  Tosti  shouted,  loud  and  wild, 

He  smote  his  buckler  proud. 
And  spears  and  lances  flash' d  amain, 

Like  lightning  from  the  cloud; 
And  England's  mail-clad  cavalry 

Rush'd  on,  with  direst  shock, 
As  strikes  old  Ocean's  stormy  surge 

Against  the  fissured  rock. 

Then  calmly  from  the  English  lines 

Rode  forth  a  mitred  thane, 
Wulstan,*  the  bishop,  wise  and  old, 

Of  Worcester's  sacred  fane  ; 
Though  scarce  the  impetuous  tide  of  war 

Held  back  its  panting  wave, 
While  thus  that  white-hair'd  man  of  peace 

His  sovereign's  message  gave : 

"  Oh,  Tosti !  by  the  memory  dear 
Of  boyhood's  early  trace. 
When  thou  wert  victor  at  the  ring. 
And  foremost  in  the  chase. 


*  Wulstan,  the  venerable  Bishop  of  Worcester,  had  previously  accompanied  King 
Ilarold  into  Northumberland,  where  a  violent  insurrection  was  quelled,  without  an  ap- 
peal to  the  sword,  by  the  iufluenco  of  his  eloquence  and  piety.  He  was  one  of  the  most 
revered  of  the  prelates,  whom  the  early  Saxon  chronicler?  were  accustomed  to  designate 
as  mass-thanes,  to  distinguish  them  from  the  barons,  or  world-tluxnes. 


HAROLD   AND    TOSTI.  315 

And  by  our  parent's  blessed  love, 

That  still  its  vigil  kept, 
When,  cheek  to  cheek,  and  heart  to  heart. 

On  the  same  couch  we  slept ; 

"E'en  by  the  mercies  of  our  Lord, 
Who  for  our  sins  did  die, 
Spare  the  dire  waste  of  blood,  and  take 
A  brother's  clemency." 
"  Speed  back,  speed  back,  thou  Saxon  kern ! 
And,  if  thy  steed  be  slow, 
The  swift-wing' d  darts  of  glorious  strife 
May  chance  to  lay  thee  low." 

And  with  the  rebel's  echoed  ire, 

A  tide  of  crimson  rolls, 
With  clang  of  shield  and  cloven  helm, 

And  cry  of  parting  souls. 
Nor  stay'd  that  deadly  passion-strife. 

Till  o'er  the  ensanguined  plain 
The  flying  Northmen  wail'd  their  kind, 

With  haughty  Tosti  slain. 

Yet  Harold,  mid  that  triumph  hour, 
His  tent  in  sadness  sought. 


31G  HAROLD    AND    TOSTI. 

And  dcem'd  the  victory  all  too  dear 
A  brother's  blood  had  bought : 

"While,  on  that  field,  the  bleaching  bones 
For  many  a  year  did  tell, 

Where  Peace  the  angel  strove  in  vain 
The  demon  War  to  quell. 


THE  CLOCK  AT  VERSAILLES. 


In  the  palace  of  Versailles,  a  clock,  during  the  whole  life  of  the  reigning  monarch, 
pointed  with  its  motionless  hands  to  the  hour  when  his  predecessor  died,  and  was  only 
to  be  again  moved  at  the  moment  of  his  own  death. 


Where  the  halls  with  splendour  glow, 
Where  the  gorgeous  fountains  throw 

Fullest  flood, 
There  a  chronicler  of  time, 
Wrapp'd  in  mystery  sublime, 

Mutely  stood. 

Like  the  finger  on  the  wall 
That  Belshazzar's  festival 

Dash'd  with  dread, 
Stern  it  bore  the  doom  of  fate, 
While  the  crowd  with  joy  elate 

Check'd  their  tread. 

Fix'd  as  adamantine  chain, 
AYilt  tliou  never  move  again? 

•2'ii-  317 


318  CLOCK    AT    VERSAILLES. 

Then  metliouglit  an  inward  strain 

Murmur'd  low, 
"  Blind  with  pomp  or  folly's  chase 
Call  the  king  !     He  can  trace 
The  true  answer  in  my  face, 

He  doth  know. 

"  When  he  struggleth  long  and  sore. 
When  he  links  to  earth  no  more 

Hate  or  love, 
When  his  eye  hath  lost  its  light, 
When  his  hands  grow  stiff  and  white, 

Mine  shall  move. 

"  When  his  crown  availeth  not. 
And  the  death-hues  blear  and  blot 

Brew  and  cheek, 
When  his  tongue  no  more  can  frame 
Vaunt  of  power  or  moan  of  shame, 
Wme  shall  speak. 

"  I  shall  speak — I  shall  move, 
While  his  fickle  courtiers  rove 

Far  away ; 
With  my  doom  of  fate  and  fear 


CLOCK    AT    VERSAILLES.  319 

For  the  new-made  monarch's  ear 
I  shall  stay." 

Slow  the  murmur  in  the  breast 
Died  away,  and  there  at  rest, 

Still  and  stern, 
Stood  that  monitor  sublime, 
Teaching  truths  that  power  and  prime 

Shrink  to  learn. 


THE  PRINCE  OF  EDOM. 

1  Kings  xi.  21. 

The  warriors  of  David  came  down  in  their  ire, 
And  Edom  was  scathed  with  their  deluge  of  fire  ; 
O'er  the  wrecks  of  its  throne  roll'd  oblivion's  dark  flood, 
And  the  thirst  of  its  valleys  was  satiate  with  blood. 

Its  prince,  a  lone  outcast,  an  orphan  distrest, 
In  the  palace  of  Egypt  found  refuge  and  rest. 
And  the  queen's  gentle  sister,  with  eye  like  the  dove. 
Became  in  her  beauty  the  bride  of  his  love. 

Yet  still,  a  dark  shade  o'er  his  features  would  stray. 
Though  the  lute-strings  thrill'd  soft  and  the  banquet  was  gay ; 
For  the  land  of  his  fathers  in  secret  he  pined, 
And  murmur' d  his  grief  to  the  waves  and  the  wind. 

''  The  voice  of  my  country  !  it  haunteth  my  dreams, 
I  start  from  my  sleep  at  the  rush  of  its  streams ; 
Oh,  monarch  of  Egypt !  sole  friend  in  my  wo, 
I  would  see  it  once  more.     Let  me  go  !  let  me  go  !" 

320 


PRINCE    OF    EDOM.  32X 

"  Wouldst  thou  hie  to  the  desert,  and  couch  -^ith  the  hear  ? 
Or  the  lion  disturb  in  his  desolate  lair  ? 
Wouldst  thou  camp  on  the  ruins  with  brambles  o'ergrown 
While  the  blasts  in  their  mockery  respond  to  thy  moan  ? 

"  Know'st  thou  not  that  the  sword  of  stern  Joab  was  red 
Till  the  dukes  of  Idumea  were  slaughter' d  and  dead  ? 
Know'st  thou  not  that  his  vengeance  relax' d  not,  nor  stay'd 
Till   six   moons   wax'd   and   weaned    o'er   the    carnage   he 
made?" 

"  I  know  that  our  roof-trees  in  ashes  were  laid, 
And  the  vine  and  the  olive  hew'd  down  from  each  glade ; 
Yet  still  some  pale  sprouts  from  their  roots  may  be  seen, 
And  the  clefts  of  the  rock  with  their  foliage  be  green. 

"  I  know  that  our  virgins,  so  stately  and  fair, 
Who  wreathed  with  the  pearl  and  the  topaz  their  hair. 
That  our  merchants,  whose  wealth  with  a  monarch's  has  vied 
In  Phoenicia  and  Zidon  in  bondage  abide. 

"  But  roused  by  my  trumpet,  the  captives  shall  haste 
From  the  far,  foreign  realms,  where  their  life-blood  they 

waste ; 
From  the  walls  of  Azotus  with  speed  they  shall  fly, 
And  nest,  like  the  bird,  'neath  their  own  native  sky." 


322  PRINCE    OF    EDO^L 

**  0  prince  of  red  Edom,  content  thee,  be  still ; 
Of  the  treasures  of  Egypt  partake  at  thy  will ; 
See,  thy  wife  lights  thy  bower  with  the  wealth  of  her  charms, 
And  thy  babe,  as  she  names  thee,  leaps  high  in  her  arms. 

"  Thou  know'st  from  thy  realm  all  the  people  have  fled, 
That  the  friends  of  thy  childhood  are  cold  with  the  dead ; 
Every  drop  of  thy  blood  from  that  region  is  reft, 
No  voice  of  thy  kindred  to  welcome  thee  left." 

"  Let  me  go,  king  of  Egypt,  to  visit  my  slain, 
To  weep  o'er  their  dust,  who  revive  not  again ; 
Though  nought  in  their  courts  save  the  lizard  should  glide. 
And  the  bat  flap  his  wing  in  their  chambers  of  pride, 

"Yet  still  shall  Mount  Seir  in  his  grandeur  remain. 
Still  the  rivers  roll  on  to  the  fathomless  main, 
If  no  tone  of  the  living  should  solace  my  wo, 
To  the  land  Ox  my  birth,  let  me  go,  let  me  go." 


THE  WISH  OF  THE  WEARY  WOMAN. 

A  FORM  there  was,  still  spared  by  time 
Till  the  slow  century  fill'd  its  prime ; 
Stretch'd  on  its  bed,  with  half-closed  eye 
It  mark'd  uncertain  shades  flit  by; 
Nor  scarce  the  varied  world  of  sound 
To  the  seal'd  ear  admittance  found; 
While  the  worn  brow,  in  wrinkles  dark, 
Seem'd  like  the  gnarl'd  oak's  roughen'd  bark. 

Oh  !  e'er  did  youthful  beauty  deck 
Those  wither'd  limbs,  yon  living  wj-eck  ? 
Did  blushes  o'er  that  leathern  cheek 
The  warmth  of  wild  emotion  speak  ? 
Did  rosy  health  that  lip  bedew, 
And  kneeling  love  for  favour  sue  ? 
Alas  !  alas  !  for  him  who  bears 
A  hundred  years  earth's  load  of  cares. 


324        WISH  oi'  THE  weary  woman. 

'Twere  vain  to  ask,  what  legends  old 
That  brain  might  in  its  chambers  hold ; 
AVhat  pictures  in  its  gallery  fade, 
By  Fancy  touch' d  or  Hope  portray' d ; 
For  Memory  locks  the  cloister' d  cell, 
And  Silence  guards  the  citadel ; 
But  still  that  weary  woman's  eye 
Doth  gaze  and  fix  on  vacancy. 

Yet  the  faint  lungs  spontaneous  play, 
The  heart's  pulsations  hold  their  way, 
And  helpless  to  the  garden  borne, 
Or  laid  beside  the  blossom' d  thorn. 
What  time  the  vernal  noontide  hour 
Gave  deeper  life  to  shrub  and  flower, 
Methought  a  quickening  influence  stole 
O'er  stagnant  veins,  and  frigid  soul. 

A  knell  burst  forth  !     From  turret  high 
Its  mournful  cadence  floated  by ; 
E'en  on  that  rigid  ear  it  broke, 
And,  strange  to  say,  the  tear  awoke. 
Then  lo  !  a  hoarse,  sepulchral  tone. 
As  when  imprison' d  waters  moan. 
Moved  the  parch' d  lips  to  utterance  free, 
"  Ah  !  when  will  that  bell  toll  for  me  ? 


WISH  OF  THE  WEARY  WOMAN.  325 

"All,  all  are  gone  !  the  husband  dear, 

The  loving  child,  the  friend  sincere. 

Once  toward  their  graves  with  grief  I  prest, 

But  now  I  bless  their  dreamless  rest ; 

For  lone,  amid  a  stranger-band,  ' 

Sad  relic  of  the  past  I  stand ; 

Dead  at  the  root,  a  blasted  tree ; 

Ah  !  when  will  that  bell  toll  for  me  ? 

"Hath  Death  forgotten  ?     To  his  halls 
Childhood  and  youthful  prime  he  calls ; 
In  bowers  of  love,  or  domes  of  pride. 
He  finds  them,  wheresoe'er  they  hide : 
Fain  would  they  'scape,  but  to  his  sight 
I  hasten,  and  his  shaft  invite. 
Hath  God  forgot  ?     I  bend  the  knee, 
Oh,  let  that  knell  be  toU'd  for  me  !" 


THE  FIKST  MISSIONAEY. 

Know'st  thou  the  Leader  of  that  band  who  toil 
The  everlasting  gospel's  light  to  shed 
On  earth's  benighted  climes  ? 

Canst  tell  the  name 
Of  the  first  Teacher  in  whose  steps  went  forth, 
O'er  sultry  India,  and  the  sea-green  isles, 
And  to  the  forest  children  of  the  West, 
A  self-denying  band,  who  counted  not 
Life  dear  unto  them,  so  they  might  fulfil 
Their  ministry,  and  save  the  heathen  soul  ? 

Judea's  mountains  from  their  breezy  heights 
Reply,  "We  heard  him  when  he  lifted  up 
His  voice,  and  taught  the  people  patiently 
Line  upon  line,  for  they  were  slow  of  heart." 
From  its  dark  depths  the  Galilean  lake 
Told  hoarsely  to  the  storm-cloud,  how  he  dealt 
Bread  to  the  famish' d  throng  with  tender  care, 
Forgetting  not  the  body,  while  he  fed 

326 


FIRST    MISSIONARY.  327 

The  immortal  spirit;  how  he  stood  and  heal'd 
Day  after  day,  till  evening  shadows  fell 
Around  the  pale  and  paralytic  train, 
Lame,  halt,  and  blind,  and  lunatic,  who  sought 
His  pitying  touch. 

Mount  Olivet  in  sighs 
Spake  mournfully,  "His  midnight  prayer  was  mine; 
I  heard  it,  I  alone,  as  all  night  long 
Upward  it  rose,  with  tears  for  those  who  paid 
His  love  with  hatred." 

Kedron's  slender  rill 
That  bathed  his  feet,  as  to  his  lowly  work 
Of  mercy  he  went  forth,  still  kept  his  name 
Securely  hoarded  in  its  secret  fount, 
A  precious  pearl-drop  ! 

Sad  Gethsemane 
Had  memories  that  it  falter' d  to  repeat, 
Such  as  the  strengthening  angel  mark'd  appall'd, 
Finding  no  dialect  in  which  to  bear 
Their  wo  to  heaven. 

E'en  Calvary,  who  best 
Might,  if  it  would,  our  earnest  question  solve, 
Press' d  close  its  flinty  lip,  and  shuddering  bow'd 
In  silent  dread,  remembering  how  the  sun 
Grew  dark  at  noonday,  and  the  sheeted  dead 


328  FIRST    MISSIONARY. 

Came  from  tlieir  mouldering  sepulchres,  to  walk 
Among  the  living. 

But  the  bold  bad  host, 
Spirits  of  evil,  from  the  lake  of  pain, 
Who  held  brief  triumph  round  the  mystic  cross. 
Bare  truthful  witness,  as  they  shrieking  fled, 
"We  know  thee  who  thou  art,  the  Christ  of  God:" 
While  heaven,  uplifting  its  eternal  gates. 
With  chant  of  cherubim  and  seraphim. 
Welcomed  the  Lord  of  glory  entering  in. 
His  mission  done. 


"SOREOW  AS  ON  THE  SEA." 

Jeremiah. 

'^  Sorroiv  as  on  the  sea.'^ 

0  man  of  grief, 
Prophet !  who  in  the  troublous  time  of  siege 
And  famine,  when  the  fierce  Chaldean  bands 
Invaded  Israel,  didst  predict  her  fate 
And  feel  her  vengeance,  didst  thou  ever  taste 
The  sorrow  of  the  sea  ?     Strength  reft  away, 
The  spirit  melted,  hope  in  darkness  lost, 
And  that  eternal  loathing,  day  by  day. 
Born  of  those  cruel  tossings  that  forbid 
The  tortured  nerve  upon  its  rack  to  rest, — 
For  these,  thy  plaintive  harp,  that  sang  so  well 
Of  prison  woes,  must  strike  another  string. 


Thunder  upon  the  main  ! 


Ho,  mariner. 


For  whom  the  landsman  in  his  happy  home 
Hath  little  feeling,  mount  the  shrouds,  go  up 

28*  ""       G29 


330  '*  SORROW    AS    ON    TTIE    SEA. 

Into  tlic  inky  blackness,  dare  tlie  sliaft 
Of  heaven's  red  lightning  on  the  pointed  mast, 
Speck  as  thou  art,  which  neither  sea  nor  sky 
Own,  or  remember,  mid  their  maniac  strife. 
The  good  ship  breasts  the  surge,  intent  to  bide 
The  battle  bravely.     Yet,  like  hunted  deer, 
It  croucheth  in  the  hollow  of  the  sea. 
Until  the  full-mouthed  billows  drive  it  forth 
Reeling  and  scathed.     Anon,  the  madden' d  winds 
Pour  out  fresh  forces,  and  with  riven  crest 
It  rusheth  desperate  o'er  the  terraced  wave, 
Vex'd  by  their  dread  artillery.     0  hearts 
Of  human  mould  !  that,  soften' d  by  the  love 
Of  home  and  kindred,  have  endured  the  scourge 
Of  Ocean's  tempests,  or  upon  the  wreck, 
Week  after  week,  held  with  untold  despair 
Gaunt  fellowship,  ye  might  a  tale  unfold 
To  daunt  the  dream,  and  turn  the  revel  pale. 

Sorroiv  as  on  the  sea  ! 

A  woman  mourns, 
Pale  as  the  little  marble  form  she  folds 
Close  in  her  arms,  resisting  all  who  touch 
The  darling  of  her  bosom. 

'^ 'Twill  awake; 
It  hath  but  fainted.     The  wild,  rocking  sea 


"SORROW   AS    ON    THE    SEA."  331 

Ilath  made  it  sick.     I  tell  ye  'twill  revive. 
Child  !  baby  !  look  on  me  !     'Twill  smile  again." 
"Yes,  mother,  yes  !  but  not  below  the  skies." 
Spasm  and  convulsion  seize  her  at  the  thouglit 
That  the  dear  idol,  whom  but  yesterday 
She  cradled  from  the  zephyr's  roughen'd  breath, 
Alone  must  to  the  unfathom'd  depths  go  down, 
And  for  its  little  body  find  a  bed 
Amid  the  scaly  monsters  of  the  deep. 
Yet  so  it  is.     And  she  must  wend  her  way 
O'er  the  stern  waves  that  made  her  desolate, 
To  her  far  home  again,  having  let  fall 
Her  soul's  chief  jewel  in  the  trackless  deep. 

Sorroiv  as  on  the  sea  I 

Ye  know  it  not 
Who  feel  a  firm  foundation  'neath  your  feet, 
And  sleep,  unvex'd  by  waves.     Death  comes  indeed, 
But  smites  you  in  the  sacred  place  of  graves, 
Where  ye  may  lay  your  dead  with  solemn  knell 
And  tender  sympathies  of  funeral  train. 
And  duly  visit  them,  and  dress  their  couch 
With  blessed  flowers,  type  of  their  rising  day. 
Yea,  from  the  gray-hair' d  sexton  on  his  spade. 
Bespeak  your  own  turf-pillow  where  to  lie. 
And  rest  beside  them,  when  in  God's  good  time 


)32  ''sorrow  as  on  the  sea." 

The  pale  death-angel  comes  to  summon  thee. 
True,  there  is  grief  on  earth.     But  when  ye  drain 
Its  cup  of  bitterness,  give  thanks  to  God 
If,  in  your  pilgrimage,  ye  ne'er  have  known 
The  sorrow  of  the  sea. 


OUR  COUNTRY. 

Land  of  broad  rivers  and  of  ocean-lakes, 
Sky-kissing  cliffs  and  prairies  prank' d  with  flowers, 
That,  seated  on  thy  mountain-throne,  dost  hear 
The  Atlantic  and  Pacific's  mighty  surge 
Battling  against  thy  coast,  and  throw  to  each 
Thy  snow-white  sails,  that  visit  every  clime 
And  kindred  under  heaven, — fair  land  !  free  land ! 
How  glorious  art  thou. 

Mid  thy  cultured  vales 
The  sturdy  reapers  sing,  garnering  the  corn 
That  feedeth  other  realms  besides  their  own. 
— Toil  lifts  his  brawny  arm,  and  takes  the  wealth 
That  makes  his  children  princes ;  Learning  wins 
By  studious  lamp  the  better  gold,  that  dreads 
Nor  rust  nor  robber's  wile ;  Art  deftly  brings 
Tissue  and  tincture  and  the  fretted  stone ; 
Strange  steeds  of  iron,  with  their  ceaseless  freight. 
Tramp  night  and  day ;  while  the  red  lightning  bears 
Thy  slightest  whisper  on  its  wondrous  wing. 


334  OUR    COUNTRY. 

— Proudly  thou  spread'st  tliinc  eagle-pinion  o'er 
The  exiled,  and  the  crush' d  from  every  clime, 
Giving  them  welcome.     May  no  vulture  Leak 
Transpierce  thee  for  thine  hospitality. 
But  sons  of  strangers  build  thy  walls,  and  call 
Thy  gates  salvation. 

'Neath  thy  lofty  dome 
'Tis  good  to  linger,  where,  in  conclave  high, 
Convene  the  chosen  from  thy  many  States, 
Sages,  and  men  of  eloquence,  who  stretch 
Their  line  of  travel  through  an  empire's  length 
To  pour  their  wisdom  at  thy  shrine,  and  make 
Thy  union  perfect.     From  the  wind-swept  hills, 
To  where  the  rich  magnolia  drinks  the  breath 
Of  fervid  suns — from  the  great,  beating  heart 
Of  the  young,  giant  West,  to  where  the  East, 
Wrinkled  with  thought,  doth  nurse  a  nation's  mind, 
They  come  to  do  thee  honour.     There,  to  list 
The  grave  debate,  or  catch  the  kindling  thrill 
With  which  impassion' d  eloquence  maintains 
Thine  equal  laws,  inspires  the  ardent  prayer 
Of  patriot  love,  that  God  would  hold  thee  safe, 
And  firmly  knit  thy  children's  hearts,  to  share 
One  home,  one  destiny. 

A  mighty  wind 
Doth  shake  the  palaces  of  ancient  time. 


OUR    COUNTRY.  ^35 

And  voices  mid  tlic  despot  thrones  are  heard, 

Crying,  as  in  Jerusalem  of  old, 

"  Let  us  depart !"     But  thou,  my  blessed  land, 

Like  some  fair  hearth  which  hovering  angels  guard, 

Gather  thine  offspring  round  thee,  and  make  bright 

Their  hallow' d  chain  of  love.     Warn  them  to  bear 

Each  other's  burdens,  seek  the  common  good. 

Be  pitiful  to  error,  and  repress 

Each  ruder  breath  that  stirs  to  wrathful  deeds. 

Oh,  beautiful  and  glorious !  thou  dost  wrap 
The  robes  of  Liberty  around  thy  breast. 
And  as  a  matron  watch  thy  little  ones 
Who  from  their  cradle  seek  the  village  school, 
B.earing  the  baptism  on  their  infant  brow 
Of  Christian  faith  and  knowledge,  like  the  bud 
That,  at  the  bursting  of  its  sheath,  doth  feel 
Pure  dews,  and  heavenward  turn. 

There  is  thy  strength. 
In  thy  young  children,  and  in  those  who  lead 
Their  souls  to  righteousness.     The  mother's  prayer 
With  her  sweet  lisper,  ere  it  sinks  to  rest — 
The  faithful  teacher  mid  a  plastic  group — 
The  classic  halls— the  hamlet's  slender  spire 
From  whence,  as  from  the  solemn  gothic  pile 
That  crowns  the  city's  pomp,  ascendeth  sweet 


336  OUR    COUNTRY. 

Jcliovali's  praise— these  are  thy  strength,  my  land ! 
These  are  thy  hope. 

Oh  !  lonely  ark,  that  rid'st 
A  tossing  deluge,  dark  with  history's  wrecks, 
And  paved  with  dead  who  made  not  Heaven  their  help, 
God  keep  thee  perfect  in  thy  many  parts, 
Bound  in  one  living  whole. 


EEMOYAL  OF  AN  ANCIENT  MANSION. 

Where  art  tliou,  old  friend  ? 

When  last 
This  familiar  haunt  I  past, 
Thou  didst  seem  in  vigorous  cheer, 
As  like  to  stand  as  any  here. 
With  roof-tree  firm,  and  comely  face 
Well  preserved  in  attic  grace, 
On  columns  fair  thine  arches  resting, 
Among  thy  trees  the  spring-birds  nesting ; 
Hast  thou  vanished  ?     Can  it  be 
I  no  more  shall  gaze  on  thee  ? 

Casements  whence  the  taper's  ray 
Glitter'd  o'er  the  crowded  way. 
Where,  embalm'd  in  fragrant  dew, 
Peer'd  the  snowy  lilac  through ; 
Chimneys  whence  the  volumed  smoke 
Of  thy  warm  heart  freely  spoke  ; 

29  337 


338  REMOVAL    OF    AN    ANCIENT    MANSION. 

Fallen  and  gone  !     No  vestige  left, 
Stone  from  stone  asunder  reft, 
While  a  chasm,  with  rugged  face, 
Yawns  and  darkens  in  thy  place. 

Threshold !  which  I  oft  have  prest, 
More  a  habitant  than  guest, 
For  their  blessed  sakes  who  shed 
Oil  of  gladness  on  my  head, 
Brows  with  hoary  wisdom  drest, 
Saints  who  now  in  glory  rest. 
Fain  had  I,  though  tear-drops  fell, 
Said  to  thee  one  kind  farewell ; 
Fain  with  tender,  grateful  sigh, 
Thank'd  thee  for  the  days  gone  by. 

Hearth-stone !  where  the  ample  fire 
Quell' d  old  Winter's  fiercest  ire, 
While  its  blaze  reflected  clear 
On  the  friends  who  gather' d  near, 
On  the  pictures  quaint  and  old, 
Thou  of  quiet  pleasures  told ; 
Knitting-bag,  and  storied  page, 
Precepts  grave  from  lips  of  age, 
Made  the  lengthen'd  evening  fleet 
Lightly,  with  improvement  sweet. 


REMOVAL    OF    AN    ANCIENT    MANSION. 

Fallen  dome  !  beloved  so  well, 
Thou  couldst  many  a  legend  tell 
Of  the  chiefs,  of  ancient  fame. 
Who  to  share  thy  shelter  came. 
Rochambeau  and  La  Fayette 
Round  thy  plenteous  board  have  met, 
With  Columbia's  mightier  son. 
Great  and  glorious  Washington. 
Here  with  kindred  minds  they  plann'd 
Rescue  for  an  infant  land. 
While  the  British  lion's  roar 
Echoed  round  the  leaguered  shore. 

He,  who  now  where  cypress  weeps, 
On  Mount  Vernon's  bosom  sleeps, 
Once  in  council  grave  and  high 
Shared  thy  hospitality. 
When  the  sound  of  treason  drear, 
Arnold's  treason,  met  his  ear. 
Heart  that  ne'er  in  danger  quail' d, 
Lips  that  ne'er  had  faltered  paled, 
As  the  Judas'  image  stole. 
Shuddering,  o'er  his  stainless  soul. 
And  he  sped,  like  tempest's  shock. 
On  to  West  Point's  perill'd  rock. 


389 


340  EEMOVAL    OF    AN    ANCIENT    MANSION. 

Beauty  here,  with  budding  pride, 
Blossom'd  into  youth,  and  died; 
Manhood  tower' d  with  ruling  mind, 
Age  in  reverent  arms  declined. 
Bridals  bright  and  burials  dread 
From  thy  gates  their  trains  have  sped ; 
But  thy  lease  of  time  is  run, 
Closed  thy  date,  thy  history  done. 

All  are  vanish' d,  all  have  fled, 
Save  the  memories  of  the  dead  ; 
These  with  added  strength  adhere 
To  the  hearts  that  year  by  year 
Feebler  beat,  and  fainter  glow, 
Till  they  rest  in  turf  below ; 
Till  their  place  on  earth  shall  be 
Blotted  out,  old  dome,  like  thee. 

Other  fanes,  'neath  favouring  skies, 
(Blessings  on  them  !)  here  may  rise ; 
Other  groups,  by  hope  be  led, 
(Blessings  on  them  !)  here  to  tread ; 
Yet  of  thee,  their  children  fair 
Nothing  wot,  and  nothing  care. 
So  a  form,  that  soon  must  be 
Number' d  with  the  past  like  thee, 


REMOVAL    OF    AN    ANCIENT    MANSION.  341 

Rests  with  pilgrim-staff  awhile, 
On  thy  wreck,  deserted  pile. 
And  the  dust  that  once  was  thine 
Garners  for  affection's  shrine. 

29* 


THE  LOST  LILY. 

Fain  would  I  tell  a  tale  of  Wyoming 
In  days  long  past.     There  was  a  rural  home, 
Lonely,  yet  pleasant,  near  whose  door  a  brook, 
Where  water-cresses  grew,  went  smging  by. 
In  its  small  garden,  many  a  cultured  bush 
Of  ripening  berries  mingled  here  and  there 
With  spicy  herbs,  sage  and  the  bee-loved  thyme. 
While  through  thick  boughs  the  blushing  apple  peer'd, 
Betokening  thrift  and  comfort. 

Once,  as  closed 
The  autumn-day,  the  mother  by  her  side 
Held  her  young  children,  vfith  her  storied  lore. 
Fast  by  her  chair,  a  bold  and  bright-eyed  boy 
Stood  statue-like,  while  closer,  at  her  feet, 
Sate  his  two  gentle  sisters.     One,  a  girl 
Of  some  seven  summers,  youngest,  and  most  loved 
For  her  prolonged  and  feeble  infancy. 
She  lean'd  upon  her  mother's  lap,  and  look'd 
Into  her  face  with  an  intense  regard, 

:U2 


LOST    LILY.  343 

And  the  quick,  intermitting  sob  tliat  shows 
Q'he  listening  spirit. 

Pale  she  was,  and  fair, 
And  so  exceeding  fragile,  that  the  name 
Given  by  her  wilder  playmates,  at  their  sports. 
Of  "Lily  of  the  Vale,"  seem'd  well  bestow'd. 
The  mother  told  them  of  her  native  clime. 
Her  own,  beloved  New-England ;  of  the  school, 
Where  many  children  o'er  their  lessons  bent, 
Each  mindful  of  the  rules,  to  read,  or  spell, 
Or  ply  the  needle  at  the  appointed  hour ; 
And  how  they  serious  sate,  with  folded  hands. 
When  the  good  mistress  through  her  spectacles 
Explain'd  the  Bible. 

Of  the  church  she  spake, 
With  snowy  spire,  by  elms  o'er-canopied; 
And  how  the  sweet  bell,  on  the  Sabbath  morn, 
Summon'd  from  every  home  the  peoj^le  forth. 
All  neatly  clad,  and  with  a  reverent  air, 
Children  by  parents  led,  to  worship  God. 
Absorb'd  in  such  recital,  ever  mix'd 
By  that  maternal  lip  with  precepts  pure 
Of  love  to  God  and  man,  they  scarcely  mark'd 
A  darkening  shadow  o'er  the  casement  steal, 
Until  the  savage  footstep  and  the  flash 
Of  tomahawk  appall'd  them. 


344  LOST    LTLY. 

SAvift  as  thought 
Tliey  fled,  through  doll  and  llilcket,  closely  track'd 
By  grim  pursuers.     The  frail  mother,  tax'd 
"With  the  loved  burden  of  her  youngest  born, 
Moved  slowest,  and  they  cleft  her  fiercely  down ; 
Yet  with  that  impulse  which  doth  sometimes  move 
The  sternest  purpose  of  the  red  man's  breast 
To  a  capricious  mercy,  spared  the  child. 
Her  little  struggling  limbs,  her  streaming  eyes 
Averted  from  the  captors,  her  shrill  cry 
Stealing  in  fitful  echoes  from  afar, 
Deepen'd  the  mother's  death-pang. 

Eve  drew  on, 
And  from  his  toil  the  husband  and  the  sire 
Turn'd  wearied  home.    With  wondering  thought  he  mark'd 
No  little  feet  came  forth  to  welcome  him; 
No  Lily  of  the  Vale,  who  first  of  all 
"Was  wont  to  espy  him. 

Through  the  house  he  rush'd 
Empty  and  desolate,  and  down  the  wild. 
There  lay  his  wife,  all  weltering  in  her  blood, 
"Upon  the  trampled  grass.     In  vain  he  bore 
The  form  of  marble  to  its  couch,  and  strove 
Once  more  to  vivify  that  spark  of  life 
"Which  ruthless  rage  had  quench'd. 

On  that  dread  hour 


LOST   LILY.  345 

Of  utter  desolation,  broke  a  cry, 

''Oh,  father!  father!"  and  around  his  neck 

Two  weeping  children  wound  their  trembling  arms, 

Saved  mid  the  thicket's  tangled  depths,  to  share 

The  burden  of  his  wo. 

With  tireless  zeal. 
That  sad  dismember'd  household  sought  the  child 
Heft  from  their  arms,  and  oft  with  shuddering  thought 
Revolved  the  horrors  that  must  mark  her  lot, 
If  life  were  hers.     And  when  the  father  lay 
In  his  last,  mortal  sickness,  he  enjoin'd 
His  children  never  to  remit  their  search 
For  the  lost  Lily. 

Years  roll'd  on  their  course ; 
The  boy  became  a  man,  and  o'er  his  brow 
Stole  the  white,  sprinkled  hairs.     Around  his  hearth 
Were  children's  children,  and  one  pensive  friend, 
His  melancholy  sister,  night  and  day 
Mourning  the  lost.     At  length,  a  rumour  came 
Of  a  white  woman  found  in  Indian  tents, 
Far,  far  away.     A  father's  dying  words 
Came  o'er  the  husbandman,  and  up  he  rose, 
And  took  his  sad-eyed  sister  by  the  hand. 
Blessing  his  household,  as  he  bade  farewell, 
For  their  uncertain  pilgrimage. 

They  prest 


346  LOST    LILY. 

O'er  cloud-capp'd  mounts,  through  forests  dense  with  shade, 
O'er  bridgeless  rivers,  swoln  to  torrents  hoarse, 
O'er  prairies  like  the  never-ending  sea. 
Following  the  chart  that  had  been  dimly  traced 
Jjj  stranger-guide. 

At  length  they  reach' d  a  lodge 
Deep  in  the  wilderness,  beside  whose  door 
A  wrinkled  woman  with  the  Saxon  brow 
Sate  coarsely  mantled  in  her  blanket-robe. 
The  Indian  pipe  between  her  shrivell'd  lips. 
Yet  in  her  blue  eye  dwelt  a  gleam  of  thought, 
A  hidden  memory,  whose  electric  force 
Thrill'd  to  the  fount  of  being,  and  reveal'd 
The  kindred  drops  that  had  so  long  wrought  out 
A  separate  channel. 

With  afifection's  haste 
The  sister  clasp'd  her  neck.     ''  Oh  lost  and  found ! 
Lily  !  dear  sister  !  praise  to  God  above  !" 
Then  in  wild  sobs  her  trembling  voice  was  lost. 
The  brother  drew  her  to  his  side,  and  bent 
A  long  and  tender  gaze  into  the  depths 
Of  her  clear  eye.     That  glance  unseal' d  the  scroll 
Of  many  years.     Yet  no  responding  tear 
Moisten' d  her  cheek,  nor  did  she  stretch  her  arms 
To  answer  their  embrace. 

^'  Oh,  Lily  !  love  ! 


LOST    LILY.  347 

For  wliom  this  heart  so  many  years  hath  kept 
Its  dearest  place,"  the  sister's  voice  resumed, 
"Hast  thou  forgot  the  home,  the  grassy  bank 
Where  we  have  play'd  ?     The  blessed  mother's  voice 
Bidding  us  love  each  other  ?  and  the  prayer 
With  which  our  father  at  the  evening  hour 
Commended  us  to  God  ?" 

Slowly  she  spake: 
"I  do  remember,  dimly,  as  a  dream, 
A  brook,  a  garden,  and  two  children  fair, 
A  loving  mother  with  a  bird-like  voice. 
Teaching  us  goodness ;  then  a  trace  of  blood, 
A  groan  of  death,  a  lonely  captive's  pain; 
But  all  are  past  away. 

Here  is  my  home, 
These  are  my  daughters. 

If  ye  ask  for  him, 
The  eagle-eyed  and  lion-hearted  chief, 
My  fearless  husband,  who  the  battle  led. 
There  is  his  grave." 

"  Go  back,  and  dwell  with  us, 
Back  to  thy  people,  to  thy  father's  God," 
The  brother  said.     "I  have  a  happy  home, 
A  loving  wife  and  children.     Thou  shalt  be 
Welcome  to  all.     And  these,  thy  daughters  too, 
The  dark-eyed  and  the  raven-hair' d,  shall  be 


348  LOST    LILY. 

Unto  mc  as  mine  own.     My  heart  doth  yearn 
O'er  thee,  our  hapless  mother's  dearest  one. 
Let  my  sweet  home  be  thine." 

A  trembling  nerve 
Thrill'd  all  unwonted  at  her  bosom's  core, 
And  her  lip  blanch'd.     But  the  two  daughters  gazed 
Reproachfully  upon  her,  to  their  cheek 
Rushing  the  proud  Miami  chieftain's  blood, 
In  haughty  silence.     So,  she  wept  no  tears ; 
The  moveless  spirit  of  the  race  she  loved 
Had  come  upon  her,  and  her  features  show'd 
Slight  touch  of  sympathy. 

"Upon  my  head 
Rest  sixty  winters.     Scarcely  seven  were  past 
Among  the  pale-faced  people.     Hate  they  not 

The  red  man  in  their  heart  ?     Smooth  Christian  words 

They  speak,  but  from  their  touch  we  fade  away 

As  from  the  poisonous  snake. 

Have  I  not  said 

Here  is  my  home  ?  and  yonder  is  the  bed 

Of  the  Miami  chief?     Two  sons  who  bore 

His  brow,  rest  on  his  pillow. 

Shall  I  turn 

My  back  upon  my  dead,  and  bear  the  curse 

Of  the  great  Spirit  ?" 

Through  their  feathery  plumes, 


LOST   LILY.  349 

Her  dark-ejed  daughters  mute  approval  gave 
To  these  stern  vrords. 

Yet  still,  with  faithful  zealj 
The  brother  and  the  sister  waited  long 
In  patient  hope.     If  on  her  brow  they  traced 
Aught  like  relenting,  fondly  they  implored, 
"  Oh  Lily  !  go  with  us  !"  and  every  tale 
That  pour'd  o'er  childhood's  days  a  flood  of  light 
Had  the  same  whisper'd  burden. 

Oft  they  walk'd 
Beside  her,  when  the  twilight's  tender  hour. 
Or  the  young  moonlight,  blendeth  kindred  hearts 
So  perfectly  together.     But  in  vain ; 
For  with  the  stony  eye  of  prejudice, 
Which  gathereth  coldness  from  an  angel's  smile. 
She  look'd  upon  their  love. 

And  so  they  left 
Their  pagan  sister  in  her  Indian  home, 
And  to  their  native  vale  of  Wyoming 
Turn'd  mournful  back.     There,  often  steep'd  in  tears, 
At  morn  or  evening,  rose  the  earnest  prayer, 
That  God  would  keep  in  their  lost  Lily's  soul 
The  seed  her  mother  sow'd,  and  by  His  grace 
So  water  it  that  they  might  meet  in  heaven. 


TWILIGHT. 

There  is  a  dimness,  like  a  doubt, 

That  wrappeth  earth  and  sky, 
When  Day  hath  in  its  glory  died, 
And  ere  the  Night  comes  forth  with  pride 
Of  sable  majesty. 

'Tis  like  the  soft  delay  of  Youth, 

Where  Love  hath  built  its  throne ; 

A  coy  reluctance,  ere  it  rest 

Entirely  on  another's  breast, 
To  be  no  more  its  own. 

It  is  the  gentle  pause  of  Heaven, 

E'en  as  a  mother  mild. 
Before  some  new  bequest  is  lent, 
Inquireth  how  the  last  was  spent 

Of  her  forgetful  child. 

Then  Conscience,  like  that  fearful  cry 
INIid  Eden's  deep  repose, 

350 


TWILIGHT.  351 


"Where  is  thy  brother?"  turns  its  raj 
Upon  the  annal  of  the  Daj, 
That  to  its  funeral  goes. 

Perchance,  the  queenly  Moon  descends, 

And  lo  !  the  haughty  Sea 
On  her  pale  face  doth  fix  his  eye, 
And  bids  his  mightiest  tides  comply, 
And  own  her  regency. 

Yet  Twilight  gray  to  me  is  dear, 
More  than  the  blushing  Day, 

Or  noontide's  plenitude  of  light. 

Or  sober  certainty  of  Night, 
Or  Moon  with  silver  ray. 

For  then,  at  scepter' d  Memory's  call, 

Long  buried  years  awake, 
And  tread  in  charmed  circles  back, 
With  music,  o'er  their  flowery  track. 
Their  ancient  seats  to  take. 

And  parted  friends,  of  whom  we  say, 

In  beds  of  clay  they  rest, 
Bend  meekly  down  from  glory's  sphere, 
.And  with  their  angel  smile,  or  tear 
Allure  us  to  the  blest. 


THE  UNRIFLED  CABINET. 

"Then  shall  we  no  more  look  into  our  cahinet,  and  miss  its  treasures."— 

Baxter. 

When  shall  that  time  be  ?     When  ? 

So  many  buds 
We  sheltered  in  the  garden  of  our  heart, 
Yet  ere  their  young  sheaths  open'd  to  the  sun, 
They  curl'd  their  leaves  and  died,  we  shrink  to  fill 
Their  vacant  j^laces,  lest  the  same  sharp  grief 
And  trouble  come  upon  us.     Life  doth  seem, 
With  all  its  banners  of  felicity. 
Like  the  fair  alcove  of  the  bard,  and  seat 
Illusory,  on  which  we  find  no  rest.* 

In  the  mind's  store-house,  gold  we  had,  and  gems 
Gather' d  from  many  a  tome.     The  key  we  gave 
To  Memory,  and  she  hath  betray'd  her  trust. 


*  The  author  of  the  Night  Thoughts  had  in  his  garden  an  alcore,  with  the  represen- 
tation of  a  seat  so  well  painted  as  to  deceive  most  obserTers.    Near  it  was  the  inscription, 
'•  Invisibilia  non  decipiunt." 
The  things  unseen  do  not  deceive  us. 
352 


ITNRTFLED    CABINET.  353 

For  when  we  ask  of  her,  she  salth  that  years 
And  sleepless  cares  disturb 'd  her,  till  she  lost 
Our  stewardship  of  thought.     When  shall  it  be 
That  we  may  hoard  for  intellect,  nor  find 
The  work-daj  World,  or  stealthy  Time,  a  thief? 

Leases  of  tenements  amid  the  sands 
And  on  the  cloud,  papers  and  bonds  we  had. 
In  Earth's  handwriting,  well  endorsed  and  seal'd 
By  smooth-tongued  Hope. 

They're  lost !     The  lock  is  forced  ! 
The  casket  rifled  !     All  our  treasures  gone  ! 
And  only  a  brown  cobweb  in  their  place, 
Spun  by  some  mocking  spider. 

Still,  ye  say 
We  may  obtain  a  cabinet,  whose  hoard 
Kobber,  nor  faithless  friend,  nor  rust  of  years, 
Shall  e'er  invade. 

When  shall  that  time  be  ?     When  ? 

When  Heaven's  pure  gate  unfoldeth,  and  thy  soul 
Glides  like  a  sunbeam  throuo;h. 

Then  shall  it  be. 

30* 


TALK  WITH  TIME  AT  THE  CLOSE  OF 
THE  YEAR. 

Time,  old  Time,  with  the  forelock  gray, 
While  the  year  in  its  dotage  doth  pass  away, 
Come,  sit  by  my  hearth,  ere  the  embers  fail, 
And  hang  the  scythe  on  yon  empty  nail. 
And  tell  me  a  tale  'neath  this  wintry  sky 
Of  the  deeds  thou  hast  done  as  its  months  swept  by. 

"I  have  cradled  the  babe  in  the  churchyard  wide; 
From  the  husband's  arms  I  have  taken  the  bride ; 
I  have  cloven  a  path  through  the  Ocean's  floor. 
Where  many  have  sunk  to  return  no  more ; 
I  have  humbled  the  strong  with  their  dauntless  breast. 
And  laid  the  old  with  his  staiF  to  rest. 

"I  have  loosen'd  the  stone  on  the  ruin's  height, 
Where  the  curtaining  ivy  grew  rank  and  bright ; 
I  have  startled  the  maid  in  her  couch  of  down, 
With  'a  sprinkle  of  white  mid  her  tresses  brown ; 
I  have  rent  from  his  idols  the  proud  man's  hold. 
And  scatter' d  the  hoard  of  the  miser's  gold." 

354 


TALK    WITH    TIME.  o^ 

''  Is  tills  all  ?     Arc  thy  clironiclcs  traced  alone 
On  tlie  riven  heart  and  the  burial-stone?" 
"No,  Love's  young  chain  I  have  tAvined  with  fio^vcrs, 
Have  awaken'd  a  song  in  the  rose-crown'd  bowerg, 
Proud  trophies  have  rear'd  to  the  sons  of  fame 
And  paved  the  road  for  the  cars  of  flame. 

"Look  to  yon  child,  it  hath  learn'd  of  me 
The  word  that  it  lisps  at  the  mother's  knee; 
Look  to  the  sage,  who  from  me  hath  caught 
Intenser  fire  for  his  heavenward  thought ; 
Look  to  the  saint,  who  hath  nearer  trod 
Toward  the  angel  hosts  near  the  Throne  of  God. 

"I  have  planted  seeds  in  the  soul,  that  bear 
The  fruits  of  heaven  in  a  world  of  care ; 
I  have  breathed  on  the  tear  till  its  orb  grew  bright 
As  the  diamond  drop  in  the  realms  of  light : 
Question  thy  heart,  hath  it  e'er  confest 
A  germ  so  pure,  or  a  tear  so  blest  ?" 

But  the  clock  struck  tw^elve  from  the  steeple  gray. 
And  he  seized  his  hour-glass,  and  strode  away; 
Yet  his  hand  at  parting  I  fear'd  to  clasp. 
For  I  saw  the  scythe  in  its  earnest  grasp, 
And  read  in  the  glance  of  his  upward  eye 
His  secret  league  with  Eternity. 


MAN'S  THREE  GUESTS. 


A  KNOCKING  at  the  castle-gate 

When  the  bloom  was  on  the  tree, 
And  the  youthful  master,  all  elate. 

Himself  came  forth  to  see. 
A  jocund  lady  waited  there, 
Gay  was  her  robe,  of  colours  rare, 
Her  tresses  bright  to  the  zephyr  stream'd, 
And  her  car  on  its  silver  axle  gleam' d. 
Like  the  gorgeous  barge  of  that  queen  of  yore, 
"Whose  silken  sail  and  flashing  oar 
Sparkling  Cydnus  proudly  bore. 
The  youth,  enraptured  at  her  smile, 
And  won  by  her  enchanting  wile 

And  flatteries  vain, 
"Welcomed  her  in,  with  all  her  train, 
Placing  her  in  the  chiefest  seat, 
"While  as  a  vassal  at  her  feet 
He  knelt,  and  paid  her  homage  sweet. 

356 


MAN  S    THREE    GUESTS.  357 

She  deck'd  his  halls  with  garlands  gay, 
Bidding  the  sprightly  viol  play, 

Till  by  her  magic  power 
Day  turn'd  to  night,  and  night  to  day, 
For  every  fleeting  hour 
Bow'd  to  Pleasure  as  its  queen; 
And  so,  that  siren  guest,  of  mirthful  mien. 
Linger' d  till  the  vernal  ray 
And  summer's  latest  rose  had  sigh'd  itself  away. 

A  knocking  at  the  gate ! 
And  the  lordling  of  the  hall, 
A  strong  and  bearded  man  withal, 
Held  parley  at  the  threshold-stone 
In  the  pomp  of  his  estate. 
And  then  the  warder's  horn  was  blown, 
The  ponderous  bolts  drawn  one  by  one, 
And  slowly  in,  with  sandals  torn, 
Came  a  pilgrim,  travel-worn. 
A  burden  at  his  back  he  bare. 
And  coldly  said,  ^'My  name  is  Care !" 
Plodding  and  weary  years  he  brought. 
And  a  pillow  worn  with  ceaseless  thought ; 

And  bade  his  votary  ask  of  Fame, 
Or  Wealth,  or  wild  Ambition's  claim. 
Payment  for  the  toil  he  taught. 


358  man's  three  guests. 

But  dark  with  dregs  was  the  cup  he  quaff 'd, 

And  mid  his  harvest  proud 
The  mocking  tare  looked  up  and  laugh' d 

Till  his  haughty  heart  was  bow'd, 
And  wrinkles  on  his  forehead  hung,  and  o'er  his  path  a  cloud. 

Again,  a  knocking  at  the  gate 
At  the  wintry  eventide, 
And  querulous  was  the  voice  that  cried, 

"Who  cometh  here  so  late?" 
"  Ho  !  rouse  the  sentinel  from  his  sleep, 
Strict  guard  at  every  loop-hole  keep  !" 
And  "man  the  towers !"  he  would  have  said, 
But  alas !  his  early  friends  were  dead, 
And  his  eagle  glance  was  awed. 
And  a  frost  that  never  thaw'd 

Had  settled  on  his  head. 
But  that  thundering  at  the  gate 
From  morn  till  midnight  late, 

Knew  no  rest. 
And  a  boding  tone  of  fate, 
Like  an  owlet's  cry  of  hate. 

Chill' d  his  breast. 
Yet  he  raised  the  palsied  hand, 
And,  eager,  gave  command 
To  repel  the  threatening  guest. 


man's  three  guests. 

So  the  Esculapian  band, 

In  their  armour  old  and  tried, 
Were  summon' d  to  his  side, 
And  the  watchful  nurses  came, 
Whose  lamp,  like  vestal  flame. 
Never  died. 
But  the  tottering  bulwarks  their  trust  betray'd. 
And  the  old  man  groan'd  as  a  breach  was  made ; 
Then  through  the  chasm  a  skeleton  foot 

Forced  its  way. 
And  a  fleshless  hand  to  a  shaft  was  put, 
And  he  was  clay. 


THE    END. 


J* 


# 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

RENEWALS  ONLY— TEL.  NO.  642-3405 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 

.  •       rtP 

J 

AN  n  1%5}  T  9 

REC'D  LD 

m    8'RQ-KPM 

(J401slO)476E                                          Berkeley 

1^ 


893557 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


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